


Zodiac v. Election: A Campaign Drama

by jfyrdraaca



Category: 21st Century CE RPF, Donald Trump - Fandom, Political RPF, Political RPF - 20th-21st c., Political RPF - US 21st c., Politics - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: 2016 Presidential Election, American Politics, Current Events, Multi, Politics, Serial Killers, Zodiac Killer - Freeform, i update frequently, this is a parody i swear, trubio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 50
Words: 27,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfyrdraaca/pseuds/jfyrdraaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 2016 presidential election, and the fabled Zodiac Killer is targeting the candidates. While Jeb! has returned home from his unsuccessful presidential bid, misfortune still seems to follow him. Marco Rubio is still in the race, but struggles to reconcile his newfound feelings with his mission. Although romance may be unfolding behind closed doors, and a serial killer may be on the loose, the race must go on! Will be updated to reflect the actual course of the race. I am In with the Memes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jeb Junior

Feb 26, 2016 – the day after the 10th republican debate

_The giant turtle beckoned to him, claws outstretched welcomingly. “You belong here, with us,” she seemed to say. “Join the turtle family. You will be loved.”_

“I can’t,” he replied. “I don’t have a shell. I wouldn’t fit in.”

“But you do have a shell.”

He craned his neck to look behind, but found it was impossible. He looked down and saw a soft brown tummy and four sturdy little legs.

“It’s really true! I am a turtle after all! Finally, I can be accepted and loved! No more –“

BANG BANG BANG. The dream faded away. BANG BANG BANG. “Wake up Jeb!” screeched his mother from outside his door. “You lousy good-for-nothing old man! Get up, Ben Carson’s been murdered!”

“Mmmmph,” said Jeb!. He didn’t want to get up. It was so nice to be able to sleep in again, no longer campaigning from county to county. But Mother was calling. “All right, I’m up!” he yelled. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and stepped onto the hardwood floor, shivering from the cold. Reaching onto his bedside table, he tightly gripped his favorite toy turtle, whom he had nicknamed “Junior Jeb.” Junior Jeb was good at being who he was destined to be. Junior Jeb was good at being a toy turtle. If only Jeb! himself was better at being a Bush.

Wait a second. Had his mother said Ben Carson was dead?

Jeb fumbled for his phone, and it fell off the table. He tried to catch it but hit his head on the edge – then tripped over his charger. Mildly cursing, he navigated to the news.

There was the headline – “Infamous Zodiac Killer Strikes Again: Ben Carson Dead.” The Zodiac Killer? Wasn’t that a… 1970s thing? He clicked on the article.

_Ben Carson was found dead outside of a hotel this morning, 2/26/16, shot at least five times in the chest and head. An autopsy is currently underway, but it is estimated his death took place at around 3:30 this morning. A typed note was found on his person and is still in police custody but we have been informed that it claims this is the work of the so-called notorious “Zodiac Killer” who killed at least seven people in Northern California in the 1960s and 1970s. Whether or not this claim is true has yet to be verified…_

Jeb sat back down on the bed. How could this be? A fabled serial killer, back in action? Why had he killed Ben Carson, of all people?

Maybe Bernie would know.

With newfound initiative, Jeb got back up, changed from his turtle pajamas into a t-shirt and jeans (thank god for no more collared shirts), took a deep breath, and opened his door. No one in the hallway. Down the stairs. Through the kitchen to reach the mudroom. George Senior and Junior were both sitting at the kitchen table, reading two copies of the same newspaper. They didn’t acknowledge him as he walked by, but he was used to being given no attention. And today that was a good thing.

There wasn’t enough room in the garage for his car, so it was parked out front. As he walked around the house, he stared up at its big white walls. He looked forward to moving out and going back to Florida, but for the moment his mother wanted him to be here, in Texas. What a miserable state.

Getting into his car, he pulled out his phone and turned off his location. It wouldn’t do for his mother to know where he was going.

After a couple tries getting his minivan to start, Jeb was on the road. His destination was 15 minutes away, at the third gas station on this road. When he got there, he parked and reached into the glove box for his bag of quarters. He dashed from the car to the telephone booth, hiding his face. It wouldn’t do for people to recognize him here. He liked this particular phone booth because of its heavily frosted glass. He wouldn’t usually be here, but the cheap flip phone he’d been using in the past had broken a few weeks ago, so he was reduced to using public amenities such as this until he could surreptitiously acquire a new one.

He dialed Bernie’s number. He knew it by heart, of course. The phone rang for a while before it was picked up.

“Hello? Who is this?” Jeb let out a deep sigh of relief at the sound of the familiar gruff, accented voice. Maybe now he’d get some answers.

“It’s me. It’s Jeb,” he said.

“Honn-ey!” Bernie hollered. “Its goohd to hea from yoo. What is goin on.”

“Did you hear that Ben Carson died?”

“Yea! Everybody’s sayin it’s his fault! Because he said he wanted somebody to attack him at last night’s debate.”

“Oh. I- I didn’t watch.” Jeb had not found the capacity within himself to watch another shouting match between grumpy old men. He was just glad he wasn’t part of the shenanigans anymore.

“Hah! Well! Nobody mentioned him so he didn’t get to talk. So he said he wanted to be attacked. Be careful what ya wish for, huh?” He laughed. “Hey, baby, I need to talk to ya in person. Could you get to South Carolina by 2?”

“No, I don’t think I can…”

“Then skype me later, huh? Look boo I gotta go make a speech or somethin, I don’t know. And all these young people want pictures. Okay?”

“Oh, ok, I—“ Bernie had hung up. “Love you…” he finished despondently.


	2. And the Award for Most Emo Candidate Goes To...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco is Distressed.

Feb 26, 2016 – four days before Super Tuesday

 _Ping. Ping-ping. … Ping._ What was that? That wasn’t the sound his alarm made. His alarm was, obviously “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” by MCR. He didn’t like the song, but it was practically the one part of his life under his own control, so maybe he went a little overboard. _Ping!_

Oh. Right. That was the sound emails made. 

Marco reached over and grabbed his phone. Squinting at the brightness, he navigated to his email. His campaign inbox, republicanrubio@establishment.gov, had 20 new messages. He looked at the titles: “CONDEMN Carson’s Death!” “New talking point add today,” “Urgent: evidence linking Zodiac Killer to Clintons.” Confused, he opened the first, which was from, of course, Nikki Haley. 

Nikki Haley. What an asshole. He couldn’t stand her constant threats to his physical safety. And to think people saw them as the ideal ticket. 

_We need to condemn Carson’s murder as strongly as possible! CONDEMN CONDEMN CONDEMN and DON’T STOP CONDEMNING. This should be EASY for you. Remember I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. ;D Nikki_

Yikes! Was Ben Carson dead? How? What if it had been Marco who had been targeted? He dropped his phone on his face in distress. Ow. A little more awake now, he looked at his other emails. All from congresspeople and governors, all telling him how to respond to Carson’s death. Their advice ranged from “avoid broaching subject more than once,” to Nikki’s “CONDEMN,” to someone suggesting he “blame it on Trump.”

Well, he was relying on all of these people’s endorsements. He’d have to go with a compromise. Condemn Donald Trump strongly once? No, that didn’t make sense. Marco let out a deep sigh and dropped his phone on the floor. He needed so badly to win some shit on “Super Tuesday.” The establishment needed him to take down Trump and Cruz, but they were sending conflicting messages. And he needed to please all of them to get their support, and needed to continue succeeding to have a career. And if he didn’t have a career his wife would finally be good on her word and leave him, not that he cared, but that would damage his image, and then he would have even less of a career, and then what? He’d just be regular little Marco. What if he had to go into – he grimaced – _local_ politics. 

_Ping!_ He was lagging so badly in the polls. He so badly wished he wasn’t running for president. He just wanted to sit at home and not wear a goddamned collared shirt with rolled up sleeves and maybe drink some starbucks and go campaigning for Donald Trump. Now _that_ was a man who knew what he was doing. _Ping!_ But no, Marco had to be constantly pitted against the man who was the best for the job. And now the establishment wanted him to move away from his nice little memorized phrases, but he needed them, because if he made something up on the spot he might end up endorsing Trump! 

He’d tried out the new tactic earlier that night, at the debate. It was both a relief to be allowed to get on Trump’s level of mudslinging but also Actual Hell to distance himself in this way from a man he respected so much. 

Not many people were privileged enough to stand that close to the man. They didn’t realize how nice he smelled: like coffee, and money, and… between the intermittent pinging, he drifted back to sleep. 

_He was waving. A blurry crowd of supporters, cheering. Spinning, spinning… He heard laughter. Where was it coming from? It increased in volume as one member of the audience spun closer and closer. The gold hair, the orange skin: he was unmistakable. Still laughing, Donald floated onto the stage, wiggling his fingers mockingly. Well, probably mockingly. Pop, pop, pop. In a disturbing turn of events, Donald’s fingers began turning into eclairs. As his eyes turned into mini cupcakes, he grabbed a microphone and began to sing. “You like D &D, Audrey Hepburn, Fangoria, Harry Houdini and croquet. You can't swim…”_

_That_ was his alarm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please comment if there's an event/meme you'd like me to include.


	3. A Bernie Breakup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the people come first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My greatest wish is that someday this will be studied by historians as a work of social commentary.

Feb 26, 2016 – about 12 hours after a morning phone call

Jeb! was in the basement of his county library, in the darkest corner of the biography section where no one (he hoped) ever ventured. Sitting on a stepstool, he got out his trusty macbook, grimacing at the campaign stickers on the back. He hadn’t gotten around removing those yet. Navigating to skype, he noted that Bernie was indeed online.

He felt vaguely nervous. Bernie had sounded preoccupied earlier, and his “I need to talk to you” was foreboding. Hopefully, Bernie intended for this call to make up for his lack of engagement in their prior conversation.

_Hey, are you there?_ he typed. Waiting for a response, he gazed at the books surrounding him. Clinton AND Bush autobiographies? He couldn’t have chosen a worse shelf. 

“Jeb!” Bernie was calling. “It’s yoo. I am glad yoo were able to come.”

Jeb shrugged. “It’s not like I have anything better to do now.”

“What about governing Florida?” Bernie was trying to cheer him up. “They need yoo there, do they nawt?”

“I’m not governor of Florida anymore, Bernie. I stepped down in 2007, remember?” Jeb tried to smile. “But thanks.”

“No problem. But anyway,” Bernie assumed a solemn tone, his face turning graven. “I had to talk to yoo for a very specific reason.”

Jeb waited expectantly.

“Jeb, we have got to break up. This relationship cannot go on.”

“W—What?”

“Jeb, I am in love with somebody else.”

“Who? Who is it?”

“The American people.” Bernie paused, then closed skype.

Jeb stared at his computer screen in horror. Numb, he shut his laptop, stuffed it in his bag, rose, and walked out of the library. 

He started his minivan and, staring straight ahead, started for home. He didn’t notice when people honked at him, or when he ran a red light. He couldn’t think straight and didn’t want to. He drove right up to the front door, entered, closed the door, and sank to the floor. He sat there unthinkingly until his mother walked by, carrying the mail.

“These mailmen don’t know what they’re doing,” she was saying, to no one in particular. “We never get the mail until so late.” She noticed Jeb in his slump. “That’s something YOU could have fixed. Pff. I guess not.”

Jeb didn’t move.

“Hey! What’s wrong with you! Have you been doing that marijuana stuff again? You know that hurts our image. Come on.” She lightly assaulted the top of his head with her bundle of mail. “Get up. Go do something useful.”

As she toddled away, Jeb struggled to his feet. He couldn’t just sit there forever. He had to – he had to…

He walked to the kitchen. George Jr. was standing by the sink, eating leftover noodles. Jeb went over to the freezer and began rummaging around purposefully. After about a minute of this, he popped his head up again. He was distressed.

“Do we not have any ice cream?”

“What? No,” George scoffed. 

He deserved this. This is what he got for cheating on Columba. Jeb took a deep breath, closed the freezer, and bolted to his room. Once inside the sanctuary of his own space, he curled up on the floor and began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've probably noticed that these chapters are pretty short. I'm going to stretch out this storyline until the republican nominating convention, and with shorter chapters I can write more of them, allowing me to keep up with events as they happen.  
> Stay tuned for some Super Tuesday shenanigans.


	4. Trump Jokes

February 26-29, 2015 – the buildup to Super Tuesday.

During the past four days, emails had not stopped pouring in. Marco’s poll numbers were bad and not getting better, and the establishment was veering into panic. Senators, lobbyists, donors, and chairpersons galore had been writing to him, suggesting strategies and, needless to say, jokes.

Trump jokes. His campaign’s newest ploy. His managers/helicopter parents were getting desperate, and the jokes, of course, didn’t work. For one thing, they weren’t even that funny. They had been thought up by unimaginative old men who thought they had come up with something singularly clever and repeated them twelve times at every dinner party they attended. They weren’t bringing in any new supporters, either. All they were succeeding in doing was making Marco very, very uncomfortable.

“Hair Force One?” Really? He used it anyway. Mental image: a plane made out of hair. Ew. Did Trump have a special room in his plane where he kept wigs and hair products? What was the inside of his plane like, anyway?

“He’s not going to make America great, he’s going to make it orange,” was likewise pretty stupid, but always elicited a laugh. The orange look wasn’t that bad, really. He didn’t know what everyone was so upset about.

“He should sue whoever did that to his face” was cleverer. But it had come from, to his dismay, Nikki Haley, who had written _please use this joke… or else!_ in her email. If anyone deserved to be sued by Trump, it was her.

“He doesn’t sweat because his pores are clogged from that spray tan that he uses,” he told a cheering audience. Marco had never gotten a spray tan before and was frankly very ignorant about how that worked. Was… _all of him_ orange?

Did spray tan have a taste? Probably like chemicals, he decided, before realizing that he was being really fucking weird.

At the campaign managers’ behest, he threw in some personal anecdotes (or, as he thought of them, anecdonalds), but he had to make these up himself, and they often didn’t turn out well. “Then he asked for a full length mirror, I don’t know why because the podium goes up to here…” He helpfully gestured to indicate the height. “Maybe to make sure his pants weren’t wet, I dunno!” Concentrate, Marco, concentrate. Underneath layers of makeup, he was blushing furiously.

One of the aides pointed out that Trump had almost sued someone once for their commentary on his short fingers, so maybe that might get more media attention. Well, it was worth a try, so at the next campaign stop: “He's like 6'2, which is why I don't understand why his hands are the size of someone who is 5'2. Have you seen his hands? They're like this.” He tried to make his own hands look small. It was harder than he had expected. Maybe he should have rehearsed this. “And you know what they say about men with small hands?” Shit. Shit. Abort, abort, he hadn’t meant to say that. Not out loud. “You CAN’T TRUST them!!” he fumbled.

The crowd and the media seemed to love whatever joke he made, no matter the quality. Marco was no longer convinced he could make it through campaign season alive. Embarrassment and horror would catch up with him eventually.


	5. A Not-So-Super Tuesday

March 1, 2016 – Super Tuesday

A miserable Jeb! was sitting on the floor in the corner of his room farthest from the door. He frowned down at his laptop, not really reading the article pulled up on the screen. He was trying to tune out the sound of the radio.

_“Tamara, it looks like the results from Vermont are coming in. Bernie Sanders has been projected as winner…”_

He heard the shuffling step of his mother coming down the hall. “Hey Jeb!” she screeched. “Did ya hear that? Bernie won Vermont!”

“I know, mom!” he hollered back. “The radio is so loud you can hear it all over the house!”

“Is it?” she yelled back. “If your hearing’s so great, why can’t you do anything useful, huh?”

Jeb scowled and clenched his teeth. It would be decidedly uncouth to toss one’s mother down the stairs, he knew, but oh was he tempted.

_“Let’s turn it over to Sam Sanders to see what Sanders supporters are saying. Sam?”_

_“Thank you Ari, I’m here in Vermont at the Bernie Sanders rally, no relation by the way, and it appears that the senator is about to speak, so let’s listen in now…”_

He couldn’t take this anymore. Tossing his laptop onto the bed, Jeb stormed out of his room and down to the kitchen, where his mother’s old radio was turned up to top volume. He jabbed it off before “Senator Sanders” could begin to speak.

“My show better be back on by the time I come downstairs!”

Jeb spied his George Jr’s smartphone and a pair of headphones lying on the counter. Good. He navigated to NPR (the passcode was easy, 1946) and turned up the volume all the way. Mrs. Bush hobbled into the kitchen. Jeb swiftly tucked the phone in her cardigan pocket and popped the headphones into her large ears. “CAN YOU HEAR THAT?” he yelled.

She nodded, patted his shoulder, and toddled away. Jeb rolled his eyes and went back upstairs.

Jeb was sick of sitting around and being sad. He had made a full time occupation of it for the past four days. The first 48 hours had been rough. He had barely eaten anything; he had neglected personal hygiene. He was ashamed to say that yes, he had texted Bernie. Several times. “Why are you texting Bernie Sanders?” his mother had yowled through the door. How was she able to figure out who he communicated with? He didn’t know. He wasn’t that good with technology. Probably one of the election interns had helped her with it.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He appeared tired and stubbly, but not awful. Jeb shaved, and then changed his socks, a sure way to improve his mood. Feeling much better, he grabbed his laptop and went downstairs.

As his mother stalked around the house, Jeb caught up on his emails. He hadn’t done any work since he dropped out of the race, and the emails were piling up. Both Rubio and Kasich’s campaign managers had asked him, repeatedly, for an endorsement. No way in hell would he endorse that little punk Rubio… Kasich looked unlikely to have any chance of winning, but he’d consider that later. Perhaps there would be a veep position?

“Oh, ma gawd!” Mrs. Bush yelled. “Chris Christie’s been shot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave your suggestions for subplots in the comments. I need to stretch this out till the nominating convention this summer!  
> Who do you think Nikki Haley should be conspiring with?


	6. A Fallen Christie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if these events aren’t exactly accurate as to when they happened. I wasn’t able to locate a record of the exact chronology of when each state victor was called or each speech was given. So just kinda… suspend more disbelief for this one, if you happen to have a good memory.

March 1, 2016 – Super Tuesday

Marco Rubio was sitting on a box in the dark of a maintenance closet at the Ronald Reagan Equestrian Center in Miami. Right outside the door he could hear FOX news over the hushed discussion of campaign employees. On the other side of the far wall were the muted sounds of his less than jubilant campaign rally. He had delivered an address about ten minutes ago and the supporters and media were already leaving, aware that there would likely be no further positive developments that night.

Marco sneezed. _Great_. The staff had scheduled this venue before he’d had a chance to tell them he was allergic to horses. He’d taken an Unsafe amount of allergy medication today but it wasn’t working as well as he’d like it to.

His manager opened the door a sliver. “The results from Arkansas put Trump at 16 delegates,” he said in a strained whisper.

“So what?” Marco snapped. The door shut. His staff was no longer surprised or concerned at this sort of behavior from him. Underperformance and humiliation: it was business as usual at the Rubio campaign.

He massaged his face with his moderately sized hands. (If they appeared small, it was because they were proportional to the rest of his person. People seemed to think he was small. He didn’t understand.) Today had been a disaster. He’d won one state. One. A single state. And not even an important one. So he’d held it together long enough to give the standard half-hearted non-victory speech, then retreated to a closet to indulge in his daily mental breakdown. Fun! He sneezed again.

A miserable hush had settled outside. Trump was giving his victory announcement. And though civilian Marco might support him, career-minded politician Marco hated his guts at the moment.

Then: three loud, sharp bangs, in quick succession. A hard thump. A frozen pause. Then, chaos.

“It appears Chris Christie has been shot!” yelled the FOX reporter. “Someone behind the curtain shot him!”

Curious, Marco stepped out of his closet. No one noticed, though, all eyes glued to the television and the unfolding crime scene.

“A security team just went backstage,” the reporter announced. The cameraman couldn’t seem to make up his mind about where to focus. Panicked reporters squawked into microphones or tried to flee the scene. Security personnel blocked the room’s exit. The camera alighted on the stage. A despairing Donald Trump was kneeling on the floor, cradling the fallen Christie’s limp, lifeless form. EMTs and guards were trying to pull him away, but he batted them off with one arm. He was shouting something, but it was impossible to hear over the pandemonium. It was a moving scene. A veritable Pieta. Michelangelo would be proud.

Marco was touched and surprised by Trump’s apparent momentary lack of self-interest. He hadn’t thought the man had a capacity to feel for others. How wrong he had been!

His phone was buzzing already, but he ignored it. A new, disturbing thought: what if he could be blamed for Christie’s death? Assuming he was dead. Marco had called Christie after he had dropped out and he knew Christie had misinterpreted some of his message as arrogant/offensive. Had that driven Christie to endorse Trump?

_Don’t be stupid_ , he thought. _This could just as easily have happened here in Miami._

Another worry. Were candidates purposefully being targeted? As he watched Christie being carted away on an ambulance and guards escorting a still distraught Trump off the stage, the most obvious answer seemed to be yes.


	7. It's What Ben Would Have Wanted

March 3, 2016 – days after Ben Carson’s death

Jeb shuffled through the black line of mourners extending to the back of the church. He slowly approached the closed brown coffin, shaking hands with and offering condolences to the Carson family members standing nearby. They seemed pleasantly surprised at his showing up. That wasn’t something he could often say.

He gripped Junior Jeb in his pocket as he scanned the crowd. It took him a few seconds to locate such an incredibly average looking man in a crowd of average looking old men. He sidled up to John Kasich, standing alone near the front of the church.

“John,” he muttered. “I was terribly sorry to hear about your loss.”

“Thanks, Jeb,” John said, patting the taller man’s arm. “That means a lot.” John looked haggard and tired, holding tightly to a handkerchief and wearing a wrinkled suit. Jeb was about to move away, but John stopped him. “Hey,” he said. “Can I talk to you after this? Business stuff?”

“Um, sure,” said Jeb.

Two hours later he found himself sitting in an old rural Steak n Shake nursing a “turtle” milkshake while John Kasich talked to him about his problems.

“Ben might not have been a common-sense conservative fit to run this country,” he was saying. “But he was truly such a dear, sweet man and had a lot of heart. He meant the world to me.” He looked down at his fries and sighed. “Did you know he thought the Egyptian pyramids were built to store grain?” He smiled sadly.

Jeb nodded, trying to appear empathetic, but he was internally envious. John and Ben had been perfect for each other. He’d never seen Carson look more… awake. Why couldn’t Bernie see that their relationship was a good thing, too?

“You’re going to keep running, though?” Jeb asked.

“Yes. It’s what Ben would have wanted.” He ate another fry. “Which brings me to my big question for you. You’ve been out of the race for a while now, but you haven’t endorsed anybody. Why?”

“Well,” Jeb tried to think of an excuse. “Trump’s going to win the nomination no matter what we do –“

“That’s irrelevant!” Jeb held up his hand.

“And I’ve had conflicting commitments. There are three alternatives and you each have your own pros and cons.”

John appeared offended. “No other candidate has the same level of experience or wants the same common-sense regulations! I balanced the budget in Washington working across the aisle, I did it in Ohio and –“

“I know, I know, blah blah blah. Look, I’m not going to endorse you just because you’re technically the most experienced candidate. You know I have history with Marco from Florida. He was almost like a member of our family.”

He’d stopped mentoring Rubio when he’d discovered what a shitty person he was. But he wasn’t about to make that public. Especially since it gave him leverage in situations like this.

But Kasich apparently wasn’t up to offering any incentives. And, truth be told, Jeb himself wasn’t sure what he wanted. Maybe, he reflected as he drove away, politicizing was ingrained behavior. Maybe it was genetic! Maybe he should stop trying. He needed something to distract himself from this race, or he’d get pulled back into it and damage himself even further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I add chapter illustrations? Tell me in the comments what you'd want me to draw!


	8. I Assure You, There's no Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not super excited about this chapter, but the events of this debate simply HAD to be addressed.

March 3 – The 11th GOP Debate

Security at the debates had increased exponentially since last week. Ironically, increased security measures meant several audience members had been barred from entrance because of weapons they were carrying. Way to appease the voters, party. Great job.

Marco was feeling perhaps a little more emo than usual today. His campaign manager was convinced that the mudslinging strategy was the way to go, because he had differentiated himself, gotten media attention, and lost the “robot” connotation. Marco disagreed, preferring the substantiative approach, which appeared more “presidential” especially as Kasich wasn’t going to be there, allowed him to regurgitate establishment-approved/written sound bites, and didn’t involve stepping in front of a freight train. He had begrudgingly agreed to give one last try at the former tonight and was unwilling to admit to the amount of time he’d spent in front of the mirror practicing smiles varying from “totally not embarrassed” to “looking like I want to be here.”

He made great use out of the first when Trump immediately launched into a rebuttal of Marco’s… unfortunate accusations from earlier this week. As he magnanimously defended the “large” size of his “hands,” Marco could do nothing but grin awkwardly and nod and die a little more.

Luckily, that was the low point of the ordeal. Besides his awkward, fumbling delivery of “Big Donald,” he decided, he didn’t do terribly badly. Badly enough to merit a return next week to his favored persona, probably. But that bit about the yoga and the flexibility was pretty funny, in his opinion.

It was a long debate, and by the end the questions were getting a little silly. “Now, regarding the deaths of Dr. Carson and Governor Christie, and with respect to Governor Kasich who has refrained from this debate out of respect, what is your response to the allegations that these murders are the work of the serial killer known as the Zodiac Killer?” Megyn asked.

“I think, quite frankly, that people are upset, which is understandable, but the fact is, it is very unlikely that these terrible crimes, have been committed by this so called Zodiac Killer,” he responded. “I think there’s a real threat here, and I’m not saying politicians are being deliberately targeted, but it’s a possibility to look into.”

“The Zodiac murders took place in the late 1960s and early 70s in northern California,” Cruz jumped in. “Politicians were not targeted at that time. There have, however, been copycats in the past, in New York and Japan. It is likely that what we have here on our hands is another one of these copycats, and we should remain vigilant in catching this criminal and bringing him to justice.”

When asked to comment, Trump waved his hands. “Look, I don’t know anything about this Zodiac Killer, okay? I know very little. Very little. All I’m saying is, it could be possible!”

The moderators wrapped up the night with the perhaps equally preposterous question of whether they would support the eventual nominee. They all gave affirmatives, but Marco could neither imagine Cruz voting for Trump nor his Establishment interests allowing him to endorse him.

Then, finally, it was over. Marco couldn’t decide what he needed more: a drink or to get to sleep asap. On the way out, his entourage ran into Trump’s walking in the opposite direction. And before he could tell himself it was a bad idea, he walked up and placed a hand on Trump’s shoulder.

“I just wanted to express,” he said, “how terribly sorry I am about what happened to Christie.”

Trump held eye contact for a few seconds, – _breathe, Marco_ – apparently confused, before absentmindedly patting Marco’s arm, muttering “appreciated,” and walking away.

Once out of earshot, his campaign manager started melting a little. “What was _that_?” he yelped. “I am already doing damage control. We need to calculate _everything_ , remember? Don’t do _anything_ without triple checking. That was what we decided!”

“Right, right.” Marco wasn’t paying attention. What he needed was definitely the drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so hype to find out what happens tomorrow and Wednesday. Shit is going to go down. Also, next chapter will have more Bernie, so stay tuned!  
> Check out the illustration I added to chapter 1!


	9. It's All Ogre Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of popular demand I've decided to include more Jernie stuff. Enjoy!

March 6, 2016 – the seventh Democratic debate

Jeb and George Jr. were sitting in the living room watching the debate. George was puttering away on his computer, occasionally scoffing but not really paying attention. Jeb was watching Bernie, trying to understand what flaws or warning signs he had missed in their relationship and what was so great about “the American people.” But it was no use. He was only succeeding in making himself more miserable.

During a particularly dull commercial, he thought back to when he and Bernie had first met. It was back in 2015, after Jeb had announced his candidacy in June. He’d had a chance meeting with the senator in a building in Washington – he didn’t exactly remember where – and they had each graciously congratulated and well-wished the other on their campaigns. They’d started small-talking about their policies and, not having enough time for a completely satisfactory discussion, had agreed to meet for lunch the next day.

They had, and a discussion of policy nuances had soon turned into a conversation about movies. They discovered that they shared a favorite movie, but there was too much they each wanted to say about Shrek to go through it all in a single lunch. They had left more friends than politicians and the next day Jeb received a genial email inviting him to Bernie’s place for some Shrek discourse.

Jeb couldn’t place it then, but there was something admirable, something cool about Bernie. Maybe it was the staunch unwavering support for civil rights. Maybe it was the endearing New York accent. Maybe it was the fluffy cloud of hair. The combination of all three had Jeb totally head-over-heels, however hesitant he was to admit it to even himself.

They’d gotten together three times, discoursing on the different Shrek movies (which were apparently a lot more economically intricate than Jeb had originally appreciated) and eventually things had gotten a little out of hand and yeah okay they had kissed and – well, Jeb had thought that showed a certain amount of … commitment. Apparently Bernie had felt differently.

After that, both the campaign dynamic and their relationship dynamic had changed. They’d headed off on the busy campaign trail, bopping from state to state every day. When they contacted each other, they had to do so secretly. They’d used skype a lot. Their in-person meetings were rare, but it was the thought of seeing Bernie that kept Jeb going through the weeks.

Then, of course, Bernie had found someone else. “The people,” who were somehow better than Jeb. Well, Jeb had met the “people,” and truth be told they weren’t that great. “The American people” wanted to elect Donald friggin Trump.

“You seem upset,” said George matter-of-factly, not looking up from his computer.

“Pfffff,” Jeb protested, but he got up and left the room. He had to get out of this house. He couldn’t stand the combined stresses of the ongoing campaign drama and his stupid family for much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was honestly so dramatic lol. Rubio dropping out was exactly what I needed for this story.


	10. F***ing Up in Florida

March 9, 2016 – the day before the 12th GOP debate

"I can't just stop a video from being used!" his manager yelled. "It's not like I have some magic wand that will take it off Twitter and late night YouTube channels and every single fucking news outlet!"

"YOU got us into this mess, Terry! YOU will get us out of it. None of your solutions are working and we are LOSING TIME."

"And whose fault is that, huh? Who got us in this mess with his funny little joke, and who botched my perfectly good solutions? Huh?"

"WHO decided to go this shit route in the first place?"

They glared at each other from across the table. This was at least the fourth time they were having this argument. They had been doing damage control all week in what Marco had started thinking of as "the hands crisis." He was being made fun of by everyone whose business it was to make fun of people. The crisis had reached peak tension when his teenage daughter had texted him “have you seen this hahahaha” with a link to a Colbert piece about it. He'd responded with a terse, fully punctuated "Yes." and hadn't heard from her since.

"There's nothing more that can be done," Terry said as he walked out. "We're 100% fucked.”

"WE?!" He yelled as the door closed. He fell into the chair moodily. Terry’s career wasn’t 100% over if they lost Florida. But Marco had already given up his Senate seat, and the election for Florida governor wasn’t for another two years. But if he couldn’t win the Florida primary, how could he win that? He was done for.

In fact, he would prefer to step out of the race now, given the choice, to save his reputation. Wouldn't want to be the guy who couldn't win his home state. But the big cheeses of the Establishment were desperate and indecisive and they wouldn’t let him. And they had his whole staff in their pockets.

He and Terry never agreed on anything, and he’d like to fire him, but someone in the upper echelons of his Establishment overlords swore by his name, so that wasn’t exactly an option. Come to think of it, he had very few options these days. Getting Establishment support was possibly more confining than making a deal with the literal devil.

So he kept pressing on, criss-crossing the state, reciting the same calculated, solid stump speeches, and digging his own political grave. 

There was another factor ruining his life: his massive, intense, emotionally compromising romantic infatuation with Donald Trump. It had taken a long time to admit it to himself, but it had started to impact every aspect of his life. He couldn’t think straight. He had a hard time answering questions. He was getting less sleep. And then there was the constant anxiety that someone would find out. This was dangerous territory; these were dangerous waters for even a Democrat. He’d have to accept that he’d have to wait this out, let these feelings fade away over the long term, because there was no way anything could come of this. Ever.

Terry stuck his head in the door. “Hey, your mom’s here...”

A distressed Marco fell out of his chair.


	11. Back in the Game

March 12, 2016 – four days before Super Tuesday III

Jeb could barely believe it, but he’d managed to escape his family. He was back in Florida and back in the game. He had been meeting with the candidates all this week to give them “advice.”

Not Trump. He wasn’t meeting with Trump.

Kasich he had talked to after the funeral, but Jeb reached out again, not to make a deal but to strategize some more about beating Trump. Kasich had reluctantly agreed that the only path to his own nomination was via a brokered convention. But Jeb secretly hoped that if the convention was contested, he himself could be chosen as the nominee. The GOP convention: one week of pure chaos! Binge-watch the death of the party. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.

Marco had come over a few days ago. Their conversation had been awkward, icy, and inconclusive. Jeb knew perfectly well that Marco had burned all of his bridges to the white house this year. He wasn’t going to win Florida, and while staying in the race could help broker the convention, it could damage his career fatally. When Jeb had raised these concerns at their meeting, Marco had gotten up and left.

Jeb liked to think he himself had a better chance at the nomination. And there was no way Marco would be on his hypothetical ticket. Once, for Jeb’s birthday, Marco had given him a large stuffed turtle. Jeb had been delighted, but that delight soon turned to wrath when he discovered Marco was subtly making fun of him all around the office for it. They hadn’t been on good terms since.

Today would be different. Cruz was here, sitting across the table, sipping what was probably coffee, but with Ted, you couldn’t be entirely sure. Jeb personally couldn’t stand the man, but he was the candidate with the best chance at beating Trump, and a coalition between him and Jeb had the potential to reunite two halves of a broken party.

“No, I really don’t see myself winning any states other than Missouri on Tuesday, based on the numbers, but you know anything can happen,” Ted was saying. “It’s not going to be my day, but that’s fine, my time will come later.”

Creepy. “But you need a high percentage of the remaining delegates to secure the nomination on the first ballot,” Jeb pointed out. “Is that realistic?”

“No, no it is not, not in the conventional sense of the term, but what will happen will happen.”

Jeb nodded. “I guess it could happen. When Marco drops out after Tuesday, his supporters will be up for grabs. And John could still lose Ohio.”

Ted sat up straighter, his beady eyes glinting. “So you’re confident he’ll step out?”

Jeb shrugged. “He should have dropped out weeks ago. Yeah, it’s pretty much guaranteed.”

Ted nodded in satisfaction. Jeb could almost see the tiny cogs turning in his head. “The anti-Trump PACs will have to get behind me, right?”

“Oh, I dunno. John’s staying in all the way to the convention. He’s going to try to broker it. He could look very attractive to Rubio’s people. Besides the facts of his numbers, of course.”

“But we have to unite!” Ted looked passionate. He was staring off into space. “My campaign will welcome them with open and welcoming arms!” He paused, coming back to earth. “Hey, you haven’t endorsed anyone yet. Will you?”

Jeb sighed. “You have a ticket planned?” He was done beating around the bush.

“Weeeeell,” Ted squinted dramatically. “Fiorina endorsed me the other day, so maybe. People like the business experience angle, yeah? Why, you want in? What good would you be? No offense meant. I’m just wondering what you have to offer.”

“I’ve got the Establishment side in my pocket now that the others are out of the picture.” Jeb leaned forward intently. “And you’ve got the rest. That’s the whole party, yeah?”

Ted stood up. “Interesting. I’ll consider it.” Jeb stood too, and they shook hands. Ted walked out, and Jeb vigorously wiped off his hand. Ted was just as slimy as the rumors said, in more ways than one.


	12. Game Over

March 15, 2016 – the Florida primaries

It was late, very late, and everyone was exhausted. Today had been taxing, emotionally and physically. The kids had fallen asleep in chairs – the family had come out to share in his humiliation – and Marco too found himself dozing off occasionally. They’d asked the staff to give them some space, and most had already left.

Jeanette was sitting on the other side of the room, flipping through something on her phone. She had barely spoken to him all day, and he couldn’t say he blamed her. He wouldn’t want to talk to him either. She’d had her hopes pinned on the First Ladyship for more than a year and had even planned out programs to spearhead. She’d gone campaigning around the country for him as well, leaving behind the stability of life at home. And what had she gotten? Nothing!

At least it was over now. The concession speech had been given, and it would probably be the last. He’d been preparing for today all week, and had perfected the semi-solemn demeanor he’d presented to the press, but he knew what they were saying he looked exhausted. What did they expect? He _was_ exhausted. He’d filled every possible hour the past month running back and forth from state to state, county to county, and by the end, he’d been as ready for it all to be inevitably over as a kid on the cusp of spring break. Except his spring break could last for over two years, and there was nothing fun about it.

Marco tried to envision the future, but found he couldn’t. He had no idea what he’d do next. Everything seemed futile. Who would elect him now? The county school board?

Even that thought, which usually made him laugh or even cringe, elicited no emotion from him. He felt empty. Devoid of feeling. Just tired.

_Donald Trump was standing at a podium in a nondescript fancy location. His skin was bright orange, neon, almost blinding. A horde of sunglasses-wearing supporters cheered from below as the gazed up at their victor on high. “Liiiittle Marco!” Trump was jeering. “He’s just this small guy! He’s puny! Nothing! Such a lightweight, no energy at all...” As he continued, his skin began to change colors, orange to red to pink to purple and on and on in rainbow order, faster and faster until he blurred to pure white. “He will NEVER be ANYTHING!” he yelled, and as the crowd’s roar reached a deafening pitch, he began levitating off the stage –_

“Wha-what?” he mumbled. Jeanette was shaking him awake.

“We have to get out of here,” she whispered. “Someone shot Martin O’Malley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for no update yesterday! Spring break started for me though, so hopefully this means more updates for you.   
> I'm running low on good election memes. If you have any, or just want to say hi, tell me in the comments! Thanks.   
> Stay tuned because soon we're going to get into the important plot elements full-time.


	13. Campaign Wars: The Paranoia Awakens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicating this one to my pal Skod. Of course the first time I talk to you in months I scream about politics.

March 16, 2015 – the day after Martin O’Malley’s death

Jeb! didn’t hear the news until that morning. After Marco had stepped out, he had gone to sleep content that one more termite had been squished, one more ambitious idiot had been put back in his place. He was driving back to Texas to get the rest of his stuff when he turned on the radio and found himself listening to a discussion of the “Zodiac Killer’s” latest message.

“I think, what is meant by ‘I really have become a part of politics,’ is just that he feels he is a new influence on politicians and maybe on the news especially, not that he is taking part in the political system himself. I highly doubt we’re looking at a real politician here. I think that yes we’re looking at a copycat though, or perhaps an entire organization. That’s another possible interpretation; he could be saying that there is an organization behind these murders that has a political agenda."

"Assuming this isn’t an organization or political body, what do you think this person’s motive is?”

“Well, it’s clear from the note that he really hates politicians, and I’m thinking his hatred has boiled over this election season because of all the ugly antics. That’s why he’s targeting politicians. It doesn’t seem like he has a party alignment or favored candidate. I’d say no one is safe, even if they’ve dropped out of the race.”

Jeb shivered and turned off the radio. Was there really someone out to kill him? He frantically glanced around at the other cars on the highway. None of them seemed suspicious, but behind any wheel, the Zodiac Killer could be lurking, waiting for the right time to strike. He reached into the cup holder and grabbed Junior Jeb, but this did surprisingly little to calm him.

Either Jeb was going to live the rest of his life/the year in paranoia, or he was going to have to take steps to protect himself. He got out his phone.

“Siri,” he tried. “Call ‘Asshat Junior’.”

“Calling George…”

The phone rang a few times before George Jr. picked up. “What, are you lost?”

“I need you to get me connected with some security people. You know there’s this crazy killer out murdering politicians.”

George scoffed. “Why should I? It’s this Zodiac Killer guy I should be trying to befriend. At least he can accomplish something.”

“It will take _five seconds_ to give me a number.” Jeb struggled to retain his composure. “And if I die, you’ll be the one shouldering the responsibility of eulogizing mom’s funeral and selling all of her crap.”

George sighed. “Fine. Gimme a second.” He hung up, and a few seconds later he got a text that read “I used these guys when I went out that once to campaign for you. What a waste of time,” followed by a number.

Jeb knew he should pull over at the next exit to make the call so he could take notes, but he was too paranoid of a surprise attack. He’d have to wait till he got home, or at least till he found his courage again.


	14. Marco, You're Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one... this one was fun to write.

March 19, 2016 – 4 days after the Florida primaries

Marco tumbled into the taxi. “Trump tower,” he mumbled. But the driver didn’t move.

“Hey!” he said. “Aren’t you—“

“NO,” Marco said loudly, then backtracked, remembering his rehearsed lines. “Erryone always says that. It’ssss honestly getting annoying.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.”

Marco grunted appreciatively, squinting at his too-bright phone. It was almost 10:30. That meant Trump would be getting home soon, if everything went according to routine. For this was the routine now – spend most of the day asleep, go out surreptitiously and get absolutely shitfaced, stalk Donald Trump. Jeanette thought he was in Washington; Congress thought he was in Florida. He was already the most absentee Senator in history, so what did a few more days off matter?

They’d arrived at the destination. It took him a minute to peel off the right number of bills for the fare, but he did it and staggered out of the car into the brightly lit city street. Trump Tower was a thin, glassy building on a fairly busy street corner. There wasn’t a lot of cover on the sidewalk for him to go unnoticed, but the building was closed to the public after 10 and even in his inebriated state Marco wasn’t about to try to get past security unrecognized. He stuck to mulling about the entrance, as he had for several nights previously, surveying passing cars for any sign of The Donald. Why was he standing out here, waiting for a quick glance of a man he could just as easily see by turning on the news? He didn’t know for sure. He just relished the fleeting exhilaration of sharing the same space at the same time.

Here he came now – the cars were unmistakable, twice as obnoxiously expensive as the rest and sporting gold license plate frames. The cars stopped directly in front of the building entrance, ignoring the honking of the automobiles behind, and out stepped the magnificent, magnanimous man himself. Marco couldn’t help but stare as Donald sauntered confidently into his building, trailed closely by his security detail. He could have sworn Donald glanced towards him once, but everything was a little blurry and Marco had turned away immediately, so…maybe not?

Shit, what if he really had been seen? Half-assed ‘no haha I’m not a senator I’m just a random guy haha’ excuses might work on cab drivers, but not here. He should leave. He needed to leave, right? If someone took a picture of him…

Confused and overwhelmed, he gave up and slid down the glass wall until he was sitting on the filthy sidewalk, knees pulled to his chest. He stayed there for a while, trying to sort things out. Thinking was hard. And Donald Trump was somewhere in the building above…Donald Trump was… He sighed. Donald Trump. He could hear his loud, passionate voice as clearly as if he were on the debate stage even now. “Marco?” the voice was saying. “Marco is that you? What the hell are you doing out here?”

Someone was tapping his shoulder. He looked up and almost passed out when he realized that the voice hadn’t been a figment of his imagination at all. The real Donald was here, right here, in the flesh. The squishy orange flesh, now reaching out a hand to help him up. He had shaken that hand before, onstage. “Why do they always say yur hands’r small,” he thought, apparently out loud, because Donald laughed appreciatively.

Marco allowed himself to be helped to his feet, but after he was up he only-half-accidentally started to fall over again. Donald tried to hold him up, and Marco made no effort at stabilizing, instead deciding to lean in a little further and deeply inhale that lovely coffee-money scent.

“Marco, you’re drunk,” Donald said matter-of-factly. “I have no idea why you’re here, but you gotta go home.”

“Yur handsr perfect!” the lolling Marco exclaimed as Donald hailed a taxi. “Don’ let them bully u! Stand up for urself, yur perfect Donald. Yur perfect.”

Then Donald was shoving him into a taxi, then talking and handing money to the driver, then disappearing around the corner, then gone.


	15. A Break with Barbara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw Trump's plane today! It was surreal.  
> I didn't update for a couple days, sorry, because I'm travelling and it's difficult to have both time to write and wifi. So we'll see how frequent updates are this week, idk.

March 20, 2016 – two days before the Arizona primaries

“Why do you have all your things packed up like this, Jeb?” yelled his mother from the top of the stairs. Jeb was on his way out the door, and he groaned. He’d been hoping to avoid talking to her any more, but it appeared that wouldn’t be possible. “Jeb, you’re not leaving us, are you?”

“I am,” he said, reluctantly telling the truth.

“Oh? And who told you that was ok?” She began to make her precarious way down the front stairs. She usually went up and down in the back, where she had one of those little chair things that literally drover her up the wall.

“ _I_ did. I’m going back to Florida.”

“You haven’t texted or called anyone recently, you know.” She haphazardly veered onto another topic. “Why? Are you as much of a loser as I’ve always suspected, or have you found a way to circumvent my prying motherly eyes?”

He _had_ bought a new phone while he was in Florida, and had been using it under her nose. It was not only embarrassing to have her constantly in his business, but also potentially illegal, as people who contacted him expected that he was the only one seeing their messages. He’d humored her for long enough. “You need to stop stalking me. You’re still trying to control my life.” He frowned. “You’re always calling me good-for-nothing and useless, and yet you’re micromanaging what I do like you’re afraid I’ll become successful under your nose. It doesn’t add up…” He was on a roll now. “And I already am successful! I was governor of Florida, mom! And all you did was get in the way.” Barbara looked shocked. “That’s right! Your meddling didn’t do any good. Remember how you called and petitioned who you said were the leaders of the ‘machines?’ Half of them had been dead for at least 10 years, and those were their relatives you were bothering! You’re so out of the loop, you probably lost me votes. You keeping track of who contacts me and when isn’t helping anyone. Why do you do it mom? Huh?”

He had taken several steps toward the tiny woman, who was now quite pale. Her look of shock soon turned into a frown. “GEORGE!” she shouted. “GEORGE GET IN HERE.” She looked up at her son, holding out her finger accusingly. “Ohhhhhh my. You are in BIG trouble, Jeb. When I’m through with you, why…”

George Jr. appeared, holding coffee. “What?” He yawned.

Jeb didn’t have time for her to explain the situation, only to have George respond with a scoff and a monosyllable. “You know what?” He fished his old, bugged phone out of his backpack, and held it out in front of his mother. “You see this? THIS –“ He threw it on the ground with as much force as he could muster. “THIS is what I think of your parenting.” He stomped on it for good measure, then took up his bags and exited, slamming the door on a wide-eyed George and a furious Barbara.


	16. Owning It

March 20, 2016 – the morning after some mistakes were made

Marco woke up at about noon in a hotel room he didn’t recognize with a terrible hangover. He felt less queasy after emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet, but the feeling returned as memories of what exactly he had done last night began to come back. He stood gripping the edges of the sink, blinking away tears, suddenly stupefied at his own stupidity. He had…said _that_? Done _that_? In public? And in front of _him_?

One thing was clear: he couldn’t remain here anymore. He couldn’t trust himself not to do something like that again.

He spent the three hour train ride to D.C. trying to figure out how he was going to fix yesterday’s mistakes. And by the time he got back to his Washington apartment he had come up with a plan.

Sure he’d acted recklessly yesterday. He’d said, or perhaps implied, some things he’d thought would remain forever private. It was out there now, and it couldn’t be taken back. So he’d own it. He’d act like he was fine with what had happened, that it was all part of some plan. Maybe then some fragment of his dignity would return.

He spent about an hour scouring the internet to ensure no one had taken a picture or video of the shenanigans. Nothing. What a relief. Now came the tricky part.

_To: histrumpiness@trump.com_

_From: mrubiopersonal@gmail.com_

_Re: explanation for yesterday_

_Donald,_

_I’d like to apologize for any distress my conduct may have caused you yesterday. I was perhaps not in full possession of my faculties. Your concern has been noted and is appreciated. But I am mainly writing to tell you I stand behind the statements I made. This is not a political endorsement, but I was speaking the truth._

_Thank you for your understanding,_

_Marco_

Was that too formal? Not formal enough? Too vague? Would Donald even remember what he’d said? Hell, did he himself remember yesterday correctly? What if he had hallucinated the whole thing? The helpful hand reaching down…the confident laugh…the smell of money… He sighed. It seemed less believable by the second.

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.


	17. You're the Bomb Dot Gov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OF COURSE I write 10,000 words of THIS but can barely write any of my serious projects.

March 22, 2016 – the Arizona and Utah primaries

“And this is where I keep the rest of the turtles, the ones I would have been giving out to people if I was still campaigning. These aren’t as important, but I think they’re pretty great. Would you like a turtle, Sergio?”

Jeb’s new security guard shrugged. “Sure. Those are some pretty great turtles, Mister Jyeb.”

Jeb nodded in satisfaction, looking around the drawer for a suitable turtle. He had a feeling he and Sergio were going to get along well. He had been the last guard available for rent from the organization George had told him to contact. Sergio was a smallish man in his mid-thirties of some indeterminate Southern European ethnicity. They had only been together for about a day, but already Sergio had saved Jeb from stepping on some broken glass.

Jeb’s phone began to ring. It was Carly Fiorina. Strange… he hadn’t spoken to her for at least a month and certainly wasn’t expecting to hear from her. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he told Sergio, who nodded and faded into the background. He was good at that.

“Carly?” he said.

“Jeb, hi!” she said. “Yes, this is me. How are you?”

“Um, I’m okay. You?”

“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine. I saw you endorsed Ted Cruz earlier…” Maybe that’s what this was about. Carly herself had endorsed Cruz as well.

“Yeah, I did.” He grimaced. “It was an unpleasant experience. Thank goodness for twitter. I don’t want to get anywhere near him, you know?”

She chuckled. “Ohhh yeah. He’s disgusting. So why’d you do it?”

“I think we’re pretty screwed whoever we nominate,” Jeb admitted. “And I also think my endorsement doesn’t matter a lot. But I do know that Barbara and George hate Ted with a passion. Basically I did it to spite them.”

Carly laughed. “ _ASK HIM ABOUT THE THING!”_ someone on Carly’s end yelled.

“Oh my god, shut up Hills, I was just getting to that,” said Carly to the other person. Jeb frowned.

“Is that _Hillary Clinton_?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah it is,” said Carly. “Although I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread around that we’re hanging out. We’ve become pretty good friends, isn’t that right Hills? Gal pals, if you catch my drift.”

“ _EAT SHIT, BILL!_ ” shouted Hillary faintly.

Jeb did not catch Carly’s drift. “Okay. That’s nice, I guess. What’s the ‘thing’?”

“We’ve been pretty concerned about this whole Zodiac Killer business,” Carly said. “That’s the real reason I’m calling, in fact. We were wondering if you knew anything about it.”

“That’s been worrying me too,” said Jeb. “In fact, I just hired a security guard. But I don’t think I know any more about this than you… did you know they think it might not be one person, but an organization with a political agenda carrying out these attacks?”

“I didn’t! Are they sure?”

“Well, no!” said Jeb. “There are a lot of theories, and not a lot of evidence. Whoever this is, they’re pretty sneaky.”

“Do you know who’s in charge of the investigation?”

Jeb paused. “You know, I don’t even know what agency is investigating this… I haven’t heard anything about an investigation at all, come to think of it.” Jeb was starting to get worried. “You know what, I’ll see what I can find out, and I’ll get back to you, okay?”

“That would be great, Jeb, thanks a lot,” said Carly.

“ _YOU’RE THE BOMB DOT GOV!”_ yelled Hillary. Carly hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAL PALS!   
> If anyone drew me some Hillarina (Hillary/Carly) fanart I would be forever in your debt.


	18. Waiting

March 25, 2016 – four days after a certain email was sent

Marco didn’t get a reply to his email for several days. During this time, he tried to keep himself occupied with thinking about anything but Donald Trump. He hadn’t yet gathered enough courage to show his face in the Senate, but he did review the current legislation and organize his collection of flag pins. After he had done that, he gave his apartment a thorough cleaning, which it had sorely needed.

It was now day four, and the mixture of anxiety and boredom he felt was becoming more just plain boredom by the minute. He was sitting on the floor, having just finished organizing his sock drawer by color. He looked at the clock and sighed. It was just now one. No use calling home; no one would be in. He’d called a couple times to check in on the kids, trying to play at being “good parent” again. Jeanette hadn’t been home either time, though, and when he asked where she was, no one knew. This was out of character for her – _he_ was supposed to be the one who threw familial responsibility to the wind, the one who was more often gone than not. He didn’t feel comfortable texting or calling to ask where she was, but he had a few hypotheses. And if she was pursuing an affair with a billionaire businessman of her own, he had no right to begrudge her that dream.

His phone dinged once – that was an email. Holding his breath, he reached up and grabbed it from his dresser, where it had been playing Simple Plan as he worked. Opening up his email, a wave of disappointment mixed with relief washed over him. It was from Nikki Haley, “Re: Link to Another Article About Why You’re Such a Huge Failure.” He deleted the email. Fuck Nikki Haley.

But then, his phone dinged again. He saw the title and froze: “re: explanation for yesterday.” Taking a deep breath, he opened the message and read.

_Lil Marco, and I don’t mean that to be offensive, it’s just true,_

_I was so surprised when you showed up at my place on Saturday. Huge surprise. Believe me, I always knew what I thought about you, but had no idea you felt so differently about me than what you were always saying in your campaign. Very discouraging words those were. Nasty stuff._

_I see now you’re a much more interesting guy than I thought at first. I’d like to talk to you some more. We should meet to have a discussion. How about on my plane this Friday. Very nice plane. Get back to me._

_Trump_

Marco felt giddy as he reread the message several times. Donald… thought he was interesting? Wanted to meet with him? He quickly formulated a reply.

_I’d love to have a meeting with you on Friday. Just name a time and place._

What sort of meeting did Donald have in mind? He’d have to find out for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once I get caught up to current time (which should happen tomorrow) updates will be less frequent...


	19. Aliens?

Thank you to Emily for the Hillarina fanart! I love that their outfits match.

 

March 28, 2016 – 8 days after a phone call

What with moving back into his house and catching up with the part of his family he actually liked, Jeb! was busy all week. His family acted glad to have him back, but they’d had plenty of time to prepare to show a cheery face. He noticed a youtube video, “Jeb’s Biggest FAILS!!” in his ipad search history after the grandkids visited.

“Jeb, we’re all so proud of you,” Columba had told him. “You know we stand behind you 100%. It just wasn’t the right time.”

She thought he was a failure. He had to agree.

On Monday, he got a chance to shut himself away and look into Carly’s questions. He started by googling: “zodiac killer investigation,” “ben carson investigation,” etc. He always came up with the same answer: “an investigation into these events and their connections is currently underway.” Always an assurance, never any more detail. He couldn’t seem to discover which organization was carrying out the investigation. He’d have to try to find out from primary sources – he had been the governor of Florida, goddammit, he ought to have some leverage.

He started by calling up a contact of his from the FBI. They answered the phone curtly, making it clear they were busy and that this was an interference. And when he asked, “are you guys investigating the new political Zodiac murders?” they seemed incredulous.

“Zodiac murders?” They laughed. “Yeah, right. The Zodiac Killer’s been dead for years. The aliens got him.”

“The aliens?”

“I’m joking. You civilians always fall for that joke. No, we aren’t handling these cases. I think the CIA nabbed ‘em.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

So he called up the CIA, but got a very similar answer. “I’m afraid this hasn’t fallen under our jurisdiction. We were told the local D.C. police would handle the case.”

But the D.C. police weren’t in charge of the case either. “Some bigshot came down and told us the families had requested a private investigation.” Which bigshot? They didn’t know, but they were pretty sure he was from the White House. Or maybe Congress? And they weren’t ones to question orders from on high.

It was beginning to sound fishier and fishier. Jeb smelled a rat. _If only Ted Cruz were here_ , he thought wryly. _Christ, how did election rhetoric denigrate to sex with rats?_ Sometimes he was glad he wasn’t part of the election anymore.

“Hey Sergio!” he yelled into the hallway. A bald head peeked out from a nearby doorway. “Come on, we’re going to hit up some private investigators!”


	20. Plane: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This was Absolute Hell to write. I honestly didn't even proofread it because i was so uncomfortable.  
> 2) I actually saw the real life trump plane about a week ago at the west palm beach airfield.  
> 3) Would ya lookit that, I'm publishing this on the day it takes place! I'm caught up!

April 1, 2016 – April Fool’s Day, but Marco Does Not Think This Is Funny

Marco shivered in the chilly Wisconsin night, staring up at the plane. He was determined to make the most of this. He had flown up to this godforsaken state and he wasn’t about to make the surprisingly delightful first class airplane peanuts the most notable thing about the trip.

If only he could figure out what he was supposed to be doing. He had driven a rental car out to this deserted airfield with no signs of life. This would, he reflected in mild alarm, be an ideal moment for the guy who was killing off all the candidates to make his move. Cruz had joked about the “cereal killer” a few nights ago on Kimmel, but Marco didn’t find it funny. Was Donald the Zodiac Killer? Had he lured Marco here to kill him? No, Marco reminded himself, Donald had suffered from the loss of Christie; he wasn’t the killer.

The door of the plane popped open, making him jump. Out walked The Donald himself, adorned in a casual polo-sweater-khakis combo. It suited him well, Marco thought, more than the boxy suits he always wore on the campaign trail.

“Get up here, slowpoke!” Donald yelled. “I know, my plane’s a beauty, but you’re gonna give it a big head.”

“Where is everyone?” Marco yelled back.

“There’s no one here! I figured you’d prefer it that way. Ya know, cause this would be big in the news if someone found out. Everybody would go crazy. So I just had my driver drop me off here and leave. He didn’t object because he was afraid he’d be FIRED! Haha, and I probably would have. I have had the shittiest week, let me tell you.”

Marco had climbed the stairs and stood in the threshold. It smelled overwhelmingly, but not quite literally of money. Freshly minted money, but not new money – crisp bills newly withdrawn from a generations-old bank account, small loans of a million dollars handed down father to son.

“Let me give you a tour,” Donald said, and Marco was sucked in. The plane was, not surprisingly, tacky as hell. Wealth to Marco meant showy philanthropy, good taste, sending his kids to the best colleges, and retiring in style, not gold-plating everything in sight. Of course, he’d never been faced with designing his own personal plane. That would completely ruin his “I am a normal human” image.

 As Donald explained that the seatbelt buckles in the first class cabin – “we don’t have any other cabin, but it’s first class anyway” – were gold plated, Marco struggled to focus on his words, mesmerized by the fact that Donald was here, talking to _him_ , his hand motions confident and intent in their natural habitat. It was exhilarating, standing next to the magnanimous man himself.

“I gotta show you, ya know, the place, I forget the word, the place where the pilot sits, it’s great. Just great.” He placed his hand on Marco’s back, attempting to usher him forward, but Marco didn’t move. He couldn’t handle this.

Donald turned to face him. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” Marco whispered. He reached up, grabbed Donald’s head, and kissed the man on the mouth.


	21. In Circles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after the last chapter Jeb seems really boring  
> also a warm welcome to shania's anime club buddies. i love my canadian fanbase

April 1, 2016 – April Fool’s, and Life Does Seem Like One Big Practical Joke

Jeb and Sergio sat despondently in Jeb’s van. Over the past few days he had spent hours upon hours calling private investigators, visiting private investigators, and being angry at private investigators. Literally no one was investigating the new Zodiac murders, as Jeb had started to refer to them. Every agency seemed to know that another agency was handling the investigation. But when Jeb called the latter, they directed him to the former.

He got out of the car and looked for the right street number. This would be the last one. If he didn’t get answers here at Ain’t Nobody’s Bidness Detective Agency, he would stop searching. No point in looking for something that obviously didn’t exist.

A disgruntled receptionist looked up when he entered. “Hello, can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for some information,” said Jeb. “Do you think you could help me out?”

“Uhhhh…”

“I need to know if your agency is investigating the murders of the presidential candidates.”

“What, no, of course not. That’s the FBI’s jurisdiction.”

Jeb stormed out of the establishment in a huff. “Mister Jeb, I don’t think you’ll ever find this,” said Sergio helpfully.

“You’re right,” said Jeb, struggling not to snap at him. Who could he vent to about this? He got back in his car and dialed Carly Fiorina’s number.

“Hello, this is Carly.”

“Hi, it’s Jeb? I’ve been investigating the murder investigation.”

“Oh, Jeb! It’s good to hear from you! Hillary and I have been wondering about it!”

“Yeah, well, I have some bad news. There isn’t an investigation.”

“There… isn’t?”

“No investigation. No one is investigating the murders! I went to the FBI first, obviously, but they directed me to the CIA, which directed me to the local police, who told me it was all being handled privately. But every private agency directed me in circles.”

“Ohhhh. Oh, dear. This is bad news, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah! No one’s trying to catch the murderer! We could be killed at any time, and no one would try to stop it!”

“Sure, but that’s not what I meant. Clearly this shows that there’s someone on the inside who’s associated with the murders and pulling the strings in Washington!”

“Oh, shit!” exclaimed Jeb. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I know, right?”

“CARRRRLYYYY,” Hillary yelled.

“Sorry, I gotta go. Discuss more with ya later, huh?”

“Hm.” Jeb hung up. He looked at Sergio worriedly.

“I guess a Washington insider is covering up the murder investigations,” Jeb said, half to himself. “What now, though?”

Sergio was concentrating intensely. “How I see you can ensure trusting and secrecy is starting an investigation of your very own. Otherwise you will not get a result you can rely on.”

“Interesting,” mused Jeb. “You may just be right.”


	22. Plane: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I took the ACT yesterday. The writing section was hellish. However, given the choice of reliving writing that or writing this chapter, I'm not so sure what I would choose.  
> Please enjoy the emotional roller coaster below. The questions referenced are from Chapter 4, Trump Jokes.

April 2, 2016 – [spongebob “a few hours later” sign]

Marco, clad in a fuzzy bathrobe, was perched on a leather chair as he happily toweled dry his hair. He couldn’t believe this was really happening – _had_ really happened. He reflected somewhat smugly that all of his questions from the fatal “Trump jokes” phase of his campaign had been answered.

_Did Trump have a special room in his plane where he kept wigs?_ No, past Marco, the hair was real. _What was the inside of his plane like, anyway?_ Kinda stupid, with all the gold stuff, but it grew on you.

_Did spray tan have a taste?_ Well, it was kinda difficult to determine a direct cause-effect relationship between the two variables, taste and spray tan. His best guess would be… yes?

_Was…all of him orange?_ Yeah… kinda unnerving, but the fact that he _knew_ made him absolutely giddy.

Then his phone pinged, and he was imbued with sudden fear. What if someone was wondering where he was? What would he tell them? He reached over and grabbed his phone out of his pants pocket, relieved to discover it was just another annoying message from Nikki Haley.

_HEY we need to meet sometime soon to talk about your admittedly dismal looking future, I’m thinking the 10 th, please bring Jeanette. Thanks _

He could deal with that later. Donald had walked into the room and was staring at Marco, process of affixing that day’s red tie abandoned halfway. “Jesus Christ, I always forget how tiny you really are.”

Marco shrugged.

“Anyway, I’ve got a long day of campaigning and shit ahead of me. So I’m afraid you’re gonna have to leave. Obviously no one can know you were here.”

“Right, I get it. I’ll be on my way.” Marco was trying very hard to conceal his disappointment. “But if someone does find out, what’s my ostensible reason for being here?”

“Oh, I dunno, you were trying to figure out what my real stances on the issues are. But I spewed the same bullshit as always so you didn’t know what the hell to think.”

“Yeah… yeah, ok.” Marco stood up. “You flip-flopped on the cost of the wall, and couldn’t make up your mind about euthanasia. Kill the old people, you said, because they’re draining our economy, but the damn liberals don’t respect the elderly anymore. You left the room for five minutes, I heard loud yelling, and you came back with an entirely different head of hair. Hordes of mail-order Russian brides blocked the exits so I couldn’t escape the madness.”

“Damn, that’s accurate.” Trump gave what appeared to be a smile. “Hey, we should do this again sometime. Get together, me and you, huh? You’re an interesting guy. Not low-energy at all.”

Marco was happier at that moment than he’d been in years.


	23. Lemonade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi how are you Homestuck ended and I'm an emotional wreck for several reasons including that and this fanfiction.

April 5, 2016 – The Wisconsin Primaries

Jeb was sitting at a bar in downtown Columbia SC, holding a shitty hipster beer while Governor Nikki Haley beside him nursed a lemonade (“I’ve gotta stay sharp, you know?” she’d said). Sure, Haley was peculiar in her methods – everyone knew that – but unlike some in Washington, Jeb didn’t find her annoying or worrying. Maybe that was a result of his family life. If you’re always around terrible people, everyone else seems better in comparison.

“So yeah, it’s pretty clear someone powerful is behind this cover-up,” Haley was saying. “If we do go to the FBI or whatever, and ask to start an investigation, I think there’s a good chance we would get deliberately misled. Like, this person would either ensure the investigation went nowhere or went in the wrong direction.”

“So you’re saying we should hire a private investigation?”

Haley shrugged. “That doesn’t really seem like a better option. The same stuff could happen.”

“But we have to do _something_. Right? Or we all might get picked off one by one!”

“I think you’re forgetting. I didn’t run this year.” Haley raised her eyebrows. “I think it’s in my best interest, actually, that all my competition gets picked off, don’t you think?” She leaned forward. “Why did you come to _me_ for help anyway, Jeb? I myself could be the Zodiac Killer, for all you know.”

“You get stuff done, it’s a well-known fact. If you want something done, ask Nikki Haley.”

Haley smiled, apparently appeased by this praise. “If you want to know my honest opinion on how to move forward –“ Her phone chirped. “Oh, sorry, excuse me.”

After a few seconds of tapping, she smiled. “Oh, this might interest you. I just got a message from our small mutual friend with whom I requested to meet on Friday. He has just accepted my invitation!”

“You’re meeting with Marco?” Jeb asked, a little disgusted. “Whatever for?”

“We’re going to discuss his future,” Haley said matter-of-factly. “What his next steps should be, whether he’ll be useful to the party anymore, whether he can be of use to me in a couple years, you know. The like.” She typed a little more, then put her phone down on the table. “Right, so, as I was saying. The best way forward would be, I think, for you yourself to head up this investigation.”

“Me? I’m not a – I haven’t – Why should I be the one this gets pushed onto?”

“First, do you have anything better to do? Second, don’t you have a personal interest in this? You don’t have to do the dirty work yourself, just, you know, diversify. Compartmentalize. Make sure no one person knows too much. This is some top-secret shit, you know.”

Jeb agreed to the plan reluctantly, but by the time he and Sergio left, the idea had grown on him. Haley really was quite good at what she did and deserved more credit than she got. If only, all those years ago, Nikki had been the young aspiring Florida politician he had taken under his wing.


	24. Young, Good Looking, and Racially Diverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention how much I love writing Nikki Haley?
> 
> Also, it has recently come to my attention that a few chapters of this were read by a panel at Kawa Kon. Shoutout to the people promoting my fic. If anything else like this happens I'd love to hear about it! If anyone knows how to get this on Colbert let me know! *wink*

April 10, 2016 – Ten days after a certain rendezvous

Marco was sitting across from Jeanette in a booth at the downtown Columbia IHop. Haley had slid in next to her before he had the chance, putting him off guard. He had to admit Nikki’s intimidation tactics were better than ever.

They had just finished ordering their respective pancakes, and Nikki was folding napkins and putting them underneath each of their water glasses. What gave her the right to assume control of his ice water? Probably the same initiative-taking, charismatic personality that had given her the possibly naïve presumption necessary to arrange this meeting. So, she was going to “discuss his future” with him, was she? What was she, his mom?

Besides, he knew what his future held. Trump was in his future.

But he’d agreed to come anyway, because everybody in Washington knew that if you wanted something done, and done well, Nikki Haley was the woman to see. (Also because she had threatened him, but that was another matter.) His political future was still up in the air, and maybe she could bring it down to earth a little.

“I’m sure you’ve figured out I’m planning for a 2020 run,” she said casually, diverting from the earlier “how are the kids” small talk.

Marco shrugged. “Sure.”

“And where do _you_ see yourself in late 2018, Marco?”

He had to admit the truth. “I don’t exactly have plans yet.”

Nikki nodded, leaning back. “Planning on retiring?”

He thought of an endless future of driving kids to sports practices, ghostwriting memoirs that would never be bought, reading a newspaper in which he wouldn’t be mentioned. Unbearable monotony. “No, that’s not on the table currently.”

“We all know you aren’t up for reelection to the Senate. So what’s the next step? Governor?” Before he could respond, she laughed. “That should be a strong no. Haven’t you noticed? Floridians aren’t fooled by you anymore.”

“I’m not _fooling_ anyone!”

“Sure you are.” She stirred her black coffee. “You pretend you’re qualified for jobs you frankly don’t have the experience for.”

“I –“

“Marco, listen. The truth is you have no real experience in government. You don’t do anything, you just hold positions, and you don’t even do that very well. What you really need is to take a step down, go back to the state legislature, and get your hands dirty! Do things! Pass some legislation. Finagle a budget. Start a community improvement program of some sort.” She made a sweeping motion with one hand. “Build trust at the local level. Even the state level! Because you don’t have that right now.”

“I’m not willing to go back to the state legislature,” he said. That was a humiliation worse than retirement.

“I was thinking you would say that.” She leaned forward again. “So I was thinking. How could you be useful to me?”

“To you?”

“Yeah. Like I said. Big things coming in a few years.”

“So what?” Jeanette said. “Just get to what you want, please.”

Nikki smiled at her. “Okay, sorry. My point is, maybe someday I myself will need a young, good looking, racially diverse sidekick.”

Marco had known, or at least hoped, that this was coming, and didn’t hesitate. “I believe I would be an excellent candidate to fill that role.” Jeanette, ever supportive (at least in public), nodded, although he knew the prospect of another long campaign was not a happy one for her.

“I think so too. And here’s how I see it playing out. For now, you remain a good little senator and don’t get into any big issues. You’ll have to run again in 2020, of course. I need a strong showing but I can’t have you overshadowing me, not that that would be a concern. You raise significant funding, you win a couple delegates in the primaries, then you drop out. You endorse me, we go to the convention, I get nominated, you get whatever spot you want. Does that sound reasonable?”

It did sound reasonable. With a near-guaranteed high-profile position in her future administration, his future could be secure.


	25. Jeb's Destiny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt title: Return of the Memes

April 15, 2016

“Your destination is on the right.”

Jeb parallel parked his van after Sergio confirmed that yes, they were here. They got out of the car into the muggy Florida afternoon, squinting against the bright sun. Hand over eyes, Jeb scanned the names of the buildings in the strip mall. _Hu Wok, Fresh Vape Today, Purple Dino Kids’ Used Clothes._ The store he wanted was at the end: _Sanchez Exotic Pets._

“Let’s go, Sergio,” Jeb said confidently. “We’re doing this.”

“Of course, Mister Jeb.”

They walked into the cool, dimly lit store. Jeb breathed in the smell of various animals. He had been putting this off for a while now, partially because he’d been busy looking up facts about the Zodiac Killer, but – he wouldn’t admit it – mostly because this dream of his was so closely associated with Bernie. They had made many plans for the faraway dreamland called “when the race is over.” Buy a little house somewhere. Analyze Shrek through different critical lenses.

Adopt a pet turtle.

“Uh, can I help you sir?” asked the teenager behind the counter.

“I’m looking for a turtle.” Just saying it brought back memories of late-night Skyping with a certain senator. Had that been only months ago? It felt longer.

“Right this way. We’ve got a nice selection of the little guys.” The teen led Jeb and Sergio to a glass terrarium in which small turtles were sleeping, swimming, and eating. It was a joy to behold.

“Which one do ya want?”

Jeb looked at all of the turtles. Each one of them had, he was sure, their individual merits. But one in particular caught his eye – a dark green one standing alone near the back. He pointed, and the teen fished it out.

“Excellent choice. Do you have a terrarium and food already, or can we set you up with those today?”

“I’m going to need all the supplies. I haven’t had a turtle in many years.” He hadn’t ever had a turtle, actually, but he was too ashamed to admit that.

Jeb and Sergio admired the little turtle as the teen found the appropriate turtle housing and accoutrements on the shelves. “He is a strong little guy. He will take down whatever obstacles stand in his way,” Sergio remarked.

Jeb nodded, but he didn’t agree. Not quite. True, the reptile had quite a lot of potential. But this turtle hadn’t quite yet – my apologies – come out of its shell. It was still young, and still learning its way around the world. Its situation before now hadn’t been that great either. The other turtles had looked down on it, hadn’t believed in it. But now it was going to a happier home, one where it would be protected, nurtured, and loved.

Jeb was so emotional that he dropped the turtle.

“Oh my Gawd!” he shrieked, but, looking down, was flooded with relief. Sergio had dived just in time and caught the turtle before it reached the floor. Sergio stood up with grace and handed the turtle back to Jeb, who was now teary-eyed. “Oh Sergio, how can I thank you enough? I am indebted to you.”

Sergio dusted off his pants. “It was nothing.”

The teen returned with a glass container and some supplies. Jeb placed the turtle in the terrarium carefully, then went to check out.

“This little guy got a name yet sir?” asked the teen.

Jeb considered the reptile with a soft and motherly gaze. Now it might be small, but someday it would be great.

“Her name is Destiny.”


	26. That's Just What Some People Are Thinking on Twitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing how news-people speak is really fun tbh

April 20, 2016 – the day after the New York primaries

Well, shit.

Marco had turned on the news immediately after he had received the breaking news alert on his phone, suspicious that it was a mistake or hoax. It wasn’t.

“It’s pretty much chaos here, I’m seeing a lot of police cars, we’ve got some relatives, a lot of media swarming all over the place.” The camera panned over a dark street and lawn, illuminated by flashing red and blue, and back to the reporter. “The police haven’t issued any more statements yet, but we are expecting one shortly. Back to you, Jackie.”

Jackie and another reporter were sitting behind a desk in a brightly lit newsroom. “So, let’s go over the facts again. Our initial police report says that the body of Heidi Cruz was found in her house fifteen minutes ago, after her daughter dialed 911. She had been shot multiple times. As of yet there are no suspects. Again, sad news tonight for the Cruz family and for many across the country tonight as we look into this story and keep you up to date on developments.”

The other reporter jumped in. “You’re right Jackie, now some are saying this could be the work of the same person or group who killed the other presidential candidates in the past few months. And we have Jamal here in the studio to talk to us about the initial reaction to this. Jamal?”

The camera cut to a man standing in front of a display. “Thank you James, let me say this is some very sad news, very tragic here tonight. Like you said, the same killer who was behind the political murders this campaign cycle, could be behind tonight and that’s just what some people are thinking on twitter…”

Marco turned off the TV, stood up, and started pacing around the room. Poor Ted. Marco personally couldn’t stand the man – who could? – but this was a terrible thing to happen to anyone.

What did this mean for him, though? His family – were they safe? Should he call them? His hand hovered over the phone, then moved away. No. Jeanette could make whatever arrangements she felt was necessary to respond to this. He would just get in the way.

After the meeting with Haley, he had moved back to DC, throwing himself back into the midst of his Senatorial duties with an unusual amount of gusto. His career had a focus again – the year was 2020. Now his job was to get caught up on paperwork, start networking again, fundraise his ass off, and reverse his poor attendance streak.

Restless, he turned the TV back on again. The reporter at Cruz’s house was speaking again. “The police have issued a statement saying that this crime has many parallels to those committed by the so-called Zodiac Killer in this election cycle, and they are now issuing an order for armed police guards to accompany all candidates from this cycle and their families until the crimes are solved. There seems to be a general consensus here among the news analysts that this step is one that should have been taken long before it ever came to this, others are saying candidates’ privacy should be respected…”

Marco kicked the coffee table in frustration, and it fell over with a thunk. What the fuck was this? The police were going to stick a guard on him? He was supposed to meet Trump for the second time tomorrow, dammit!

His phone pinged. Sure enough, it was a message from Donald, cancelling their plans.


	27. Gaps To Be Filled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. This week has been busy. I wrote half of this on a bus.

April 27, 2016 - the day after the Pennsylvania primaries

Jeb didn't know when or how he'd become comfortable casually calling the Clintons. But here he was.

"So why'd you do it?" he asked.

"It was an opportunity I couldn't pass up," Carly explained. "Of course, months ago, I thought the opportunity was the job. Now it's to sabotage the Republican campaigns. But there's another reason, too..."

"And what might that be?"

Carly sounded hesitant. "I don't think I should discuss this over the phone, you know? It has to do with the investigation. But I'd rather explain it in person."

"Hmm." It was clear Jeb wasn't going to get any more information out of her at this time. "Okay. Well. Good luck then. Say hi to Hillary for me." He hung up.

"They can come back in, Sergio," he called. Sergio let in the security guards placed by the police. They'd been here for almost a week now and had proved more of a burden than a protection. So he had placed Sergio in charge of handling them.

Compared to these stoic policepersons, Sergio was an absolute delight to be around. In a vain attempt to replicate the past, Jeb had suggested they watch Shrek together. But Sergio wasn't receptive to the brilliant narrative and certainly didn't engage in analytical criticism through a Marxist lens. Sergio wasn't Bernie. Bernie was still on the campaign trail, riding his hopeless campaign to the finish line. Jeb wanted to feel a sense of justice that the American people had let Bernie down, but he couldn't.

While he wasn't busy missing Bernie, Jeb had been conducting the investigation. He had visited the Carson and Christie crime scenes, talking to police at both locations. He had compiled a list of the evidence and a list of characteristics he expected the perpetrator to have. The latter included

  * male
  * medium height
  * greasy hands (fingerprints not on record, or records removed)
  * unknown agenda



The agenda of this person was one of the most interesting aspects of the case, in Jeb’s opinion. So far, he, or whoever he was acting on behalf of, had targeted both Democrats and Republicans. If he favored a democratic candidate, why had his target been Martin O’Malley, a relative non-entity? And on the Republican side, who had escaped who was still running? Trump had been damaged with Christie’s death, Kasich with Carson’s, and now Cruz with the other Cruz’s.

Sergio hypothesized that this was the work of a foreign government trying to make American politics look even more horrendous, but Jeb disagreed. This had to be an inside job. And now that Carly was back on the inside of the campaign, they might soon be getting some new leads.


	28. Whatever It Took

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the week where i drown in AP tests

May 4, 2016 – a day after the Indiana primaries

They had done the seemingly impossible.

Sadly, by “seemingly impossible,” Marco meant unifying the Republican party around Trump. Not finding a time and place to meet again. But that would come in time, he was sure. For now, he could be proud of what they’d accomplished. Marco had been flexing his old political muscles behind the scenes, campaigning for the party wide acceptance of The Donald, and it seemed to be working.

Any thought that Trump might be “using” him to reach his political ends was shoved to the back of his mind. He knew in his heart it wasn’t true. They had something special.

The Keurig let out a demonic shriek to let him know the coffee was done. Script in hand, he went to get it. Today was going to be a productive day, he was convinced. The script read:

_Good morning, Senator __! It’s Marco calling. I just wanted to touch base with you about your public support, or should I say lack thereof, for our new presumptive nominee. I’d love to have a conversation with you. Call me back._

Short and sweet.

He went and sat back down at his desk. Who was the next in line to be called? Roy Blunt? Okay, here goes. He picked up his phone to dial the number, but was distracted by another email notification. It could be Nikki Haley and probably was – she was always sending him new ideas for policies and catchphrases. They were usually terrible, but the sheer volume of them meant she was bound to have at least some good material.

But no. It wasn’t The Nikki. It was The Donald! He opened the email, excited.

_Marco, now that I’m the only one running I’m gonna have a lot more free time. Let’s get together, huh? I can show you my yacht. She’s a beauty. Monday, Mar A Lago. It’ll be fun. The weather is supposed to be just fantastic, and let me tell you, if I know anything about my waterfront properties, it will be. Tell me if this doesn’t work. Love Donald._

“YES!” Marco yelled. “FUCK yes.”

There was a commotion in the hallway. Two worried-looking policemen poked their heads in the door. “All you all right sir?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. They retreated. That would be the challenge: shaking off his police security guard. It had been over a month since the night on the plane, the best day of his life, his latest turning point. Being away from Trump for this long was frustrating, but probably inevitable, what with both of their busy schedules, the public eye, and the security guards. They’d made plans; the plans had fallen through.

But he was certain that the tide was turning in their favor, and he was going to make this work, whatever it took.


	29. His Fleek Is Dead

As Jeb walked up the Clinton driveway, he had to admit he was a little nervous. Sure, he and Hillary ran in the same types of circles, and he had spent plenty of time with Carly on the campaign trail. But he had never been invited to the home of a _rival democrat_ before.

Carly was waiting for him at the door. “Jeb! It’s good to see you. You look as Jeb as ever.” They shook hands. Carly appeared to feel at home in Casa Clinton. Jeb wondered if she lived here. He followed her into a living room.

“Well if it isn’t JEB BUSH!” said Hillary, loudly, approaching him. He awkwardly accepted her “I’m a relatable human being on your level, fellow citizen” hug, and they sat down.

“BILL, WE NEED SOME DRINKS,” Hillary hollered. Bill Clinton shuffled in with a tray, eyes downcast, and distributed the drinks. Jeb almost felt sorry for the old man, but this was justice. Poetic, even.

“I’m glad you could come, Jeb,” said Carly. “This past week has been very crazy, very full of events.”

“Especially for you. You’ve been very busy, I gather,” Jeb pointed out.

“Yeah, yeah it’s been a blur.”

“I thought the fall through the stage was especially artistic,” Jeb said. “Oh, and the singing? A perfect touch. There’s no better way to induce ridicule from all sides.”

Carly grinned. “I know. And thanks. The fall of the Cruz empire was spectacular. Now we just have to take down Trump, and that shouldn’t be much of a problem, should it, Hills?”

“Yas queen, his fleek is dead, as the youth like to say. As President Hillary Clinton would say, and is saying, HE’S A GONER!” Hillary appeared enthusiastic about the prospect of a cleared field.

“But you told me there was another reason you infiltrated his campaign, other than sabotage,” Jeb prodded.

Carly leaned forward intently. “Ohh, yes. Okay. Think about this. What are your clues about the Zodiac Killer so far?”

“Uhhh, male, average height, greasy fingers with unknown prints, political agenda?”

“And WHO fits that description, huh?” Carly waved her arms, excited. “Ted Cruz!”

Jeb frowned. “I don’t… That doesn’t make sense. Why is Heidi dead, in that case?”

“Because somebody _knows_ , and they were trying to spook him! It all lines up, doesn’t it?”

“No, not really.”

Carly raised her eyebrows. “Then why did he drop out, huh? Why is his campaign over?”

Jeb was becoming more confused. “Because of your sabotage efforts? Because Republican voters want Trump?”

“WRONG!” yelled Hillary. “Carly was getting TOO CLOSE to the truth. He had to shake her off!”

“ _They’re crazy,_ ” whispered Bill, who had been hovering by the door. A mistake. Hillary turned on him. “SHUT UP, BILL, NO ONE LIKES YOU.” Bill retreated, vanquished.

Jeb stood up, angry. “This is why I came to New York? _This_ is the malarkey you thought was so important and secret it couldn’t be shared over the phone? This _stupid internet meme_? I’m sorry I have to be the one to break it to you, but Ted Cruz is NOT the Zodiac Killer. I think it’s kinda twisted to be making assumptions like that about someone who _lost a loved one_ in this conflict.”

Bill got the door for him. “Thanks,” said Jeb. Then, to the other two: “I don’t think we’re going to be working together anymore.”


	30. Get Down from There, Nutso

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this during my history teacher's lesson on current politics. It was surreal. He was talking about Jeb and everyone was looking at me knowingly.

May 9, 2016 – the day before the West Virginia primaries

“I’m flying!” declared Marco, squinting as the wind tore over his face. The dusky blue Florida water spread out below him, flecked with foam and the gold reflected light. He smelled salt. The setting sun was a plump dot above the horizon, bleeding its fiery orange-red into a flock of passing clouds. A single seagull silhouette beat lonely and black against the celestial backdrop. Arms outstretched, it could all be his…

“Yeah, yeah, get down from there, nutso.” Trump was sitting on the raised edge of the yacht, staring at Marco’s adventure at the prow. “Imagine the liability if you fell off and drowned.”

Marco got down from his perch and sat beside Donald. He must have failed to suitably hide his disappointment, because Donald said, “What, do you want me to go all ‘ooh do u trust me rose’ because yeah that ain’t happening on this ship.”

“Right…” Marco pretended that was obvious.

Trump patted Marco’s knee. “But hey. While you’re here. I’ve got something big for ya.”

Marco raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah?”

But Donald was gazing off into the sunset. “Yeah. You know I’ve been looking for a veep. And I realize you already put out a statement saying you wouldn’t accept my offer –“

Marco cursed his own stupidity. How hadn’t he seen this coming? Why hadn’t he waited to make a public statement until _after_ today? “I – I don’t know…”

“I get that, I get that.” Trump wrapped an arm around Marco’s shoulders. “You already said you wouldn’t, and you think my chances are terrible.”

“I didn’t mean –“

“So I’ll just leave the option open for ya. You tell me you want the job, I ditch whoever poor schmuck I had lined up, it’s yours for the taking.”

“Mmhmm.” Marco envisioned being Donald’s running mate. Going back on the campaign trail was a daunting and exhausting prospect, but wasn’t that inevitable with the job he had? Besides, he would get to spend more time with the magnanimous man himself. But was winning realistic? Difficult to say. Would either winning _or_ losing damage his career? Maybe, yes.

But – imagine winning. Going to work at the White House. And even possibly becoming president… Of course, that would require Trump’s resignation – probably unlikely – or impeachment – less unlikely – or death – that could be arranged. He already had a cover: the zodiac killer strikes one last time. How easy would it be to hire a hitman for this type of job? Maybe he could go overseas…  

“Hey, are you there?” Trump snapped his fingers, and Marco’s attention was back in the present. “Do you like my offer?”

What had Marco been thinking!? Assassinate Trump? The man he loved? Just for a stupid _job_? “You’re so generous, thank you. But don’t you think I’d be a setback? Your voter base doesn’t exactly like me.”

Donald shrugged. “They’ll be fine. I’m the only one who really matters this year.”

Marco had to agree.


	31. Some Are True; Some Are Dangerous

May 12, 2016 – the day of the Trump-Ryan summit

Why did everything good and valuable always slip through his fingers? His college girlfriend. The movie deal for his book. His 2016 presidency. _Sigh_. Bernie.

 _We never got any good pictures together_ , Jeb mused despondently as he scrolled down Bernie’s private Instagram. It was all pictures of Bernie and Jane, Bernie and other family members, Bernie and various socialist imagery. Jeb had never been featured here, and in all likelihood never would be. Very little evidence of their relationship existed. They had been careful – too careful.

But Jeb was a loser. He lost the election. He lost his boyfriend. And now where was he? Stalking his ex’s Instagram? What an adolescent thing to do. He couldn’t help but visualize himself in each of the photos. He wanted to be there, reading a book to Bernie’s grandkids. Eating a corndog at the fair. Signing books. Petting a dog. Jeb was so engrossed in his jealousy he didn’t notice when Sergio entered the room, only looking up when he took the phone from Jeb’s hands.

“You shouldn’t be looking at this, Jeb,” said Sergio. “It’s not good for you.”

Jeb nodded, acknowledging the truth in the statement. He couldn’t dwell on the past forever. Actually, he technically could, but that existence would be an unhappy one. What would he do without Sergio?

“Let’s focus on the task we set for today,” Sergio suggested. “You were going to look for Zodiac Killer experts nearby, yes?”

“Exactly. Thanks, Sergio,” said Jeb, opening his laptop. “Let’s get down to business.”

He started googling. _Zodiac killer experts_ yielded no useful results, only vague articles on the research required for the 2007 movie. He went to Google Scholar and looked for research articles about the Zodiac Killer, hoping that he could find information about the authors. But he found no substantial scholarship on the subject.

It took a while before he found himself on truezodiackiller.com’s “top contributors” page. It was a gold mine. Names, email addresses, states: it was all there. All of them lived on the west coast, except for one Abraham Neely ([abeneelyzodiac@gmail.com](mailto:abeneelyzodiac@gmail.com)) of Georgia. Jeb clicked on the name and read the man’s profile, which did not include a picture.

_Abe Neely, unofficial sleuth. Knows all the conspiracies. Some are true. Some are dangerous. I know the truths about the Zodiac, the haunting stories. I am the ultimate expert. Look no further for all the answers. But I might not tell you. Some secrets should be kept secret._

This seemed promising. Jeb navigated to the email he had set up for this project, [presidentialzodiacinvestigation@gmail.com](mailto:presidentialzodiacinvestigation@gmail.com).

_Mr. Neely: I’m conducting an investigation of the murders of the presidential candidates, and I’m interested in hearing your thoughts and input on the issue. I found your profile on truezodiackiller, and you seem very knowledgeable. Would you be willing to speak to me this week? Thanks, Anonymous._

Surely now he would get some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm /fairly/ certain these emails don't exist. Who knows.


	32. Confessions

May 13, 2016 – the day Trump hung up after being questioned about John Miller during a phone interview

He left the security guards waiting outside. All the lights in the house were off, but as he gently shut the front door, the kitchen flooded to life. He walked in, blinking at the brightness. Jeanette was standing in the kitchen. She looked angry.

“You said you would be home at seven,” she said, accusing. “That was five hours ago.”

Marco shrugged. “Sorry.”

“No!” She wasn’t letting him get out of this one. “Sorry’s not going to cut it. You didn’t call, text, anything to tell me you were running late. I had the kids waiting up until nine before I sent them to their rooms. They haven’t seen you for weeks!”

“Like I said, yeah maybe I forgot to call, I’m sorry…”

“We don’t need _sorry_!” Jeanette exclaimed. “We need _institutional changes_!”

Marco scowled. “Oh, so I need to change my ways? What about you? The kids told me you’ve had mysterious prolonged absences lately. Unlike you, I at least _talk_ to them. So don’t go telling me I’m the only one who’s problematic.”

“Ha! I see how it is. I take some time for myself, and suddenly I’m the bad guy? I don’t know if you noticed, but the past, what, year or so? Has been Marco Time. Our lives have revolved around you. And then you up and leave us for a month. And you think you’re some hero for calling once in a while? Who do you think is taking care of the kids? Packing their lunches? Driving them to stupid sport practices? CERTAINLY NOT YOU!”

Jeanette was shouting. Marco couldn’t get a word in edgewise. At least at the debates there had been moderators present to try to clear the chaos and pretend there was fair representation.

“You seem awfully _defensive_ , Jean. Are you sure there isn’t something YOU’D like to tell ME?” Marco was going out on a limb here. He had no idea if what Jeanette was doing away from home was legitimate or not, but if he played his cards right, he was about to find out.

“Fuck NO,” Jean exclaimed. “YOU don’t deserve to know _anything_.”

“You’re seeing someone. Who is it?”

She glared at him. Inhaled deeply. Smirked. “Nikki. Haley.”

Marco blinked, his brain struggling to take this in. “What? As in…”

“The governor of South Carolina? Yeah, no shit! A delightful and, might I add, _successful_ woman!”

“What THE FUCK!” Marco yelled. “THIS ISN’T – aUGH!” He was too shocked to be angry, but he managed to pretend.

“Slow down there, mister righteous. What do _you_ have to tell _me_?”

Should he tell her? It would be dangerous for that information to be out there, but god, the look on her face.

“I don’t know what you mean!” Marco fake-protested. “You think that since you’ve sunk to the moral depths, I have as well?”

“Come on, I’ll manage to find out eventually.”

“Fine! Fine. You won’t believe me, though.”

“Try me.”

“Donald Trump.”

He was right. The shock and disgust on her face were priceless. She had no words.

“He’s fabulously wealthy, you know. And very successful too,” he added. Jean continued to gape, but he began to perceive she wasn’t gaping at him, but at something behind him. He turned around.

Standing in the doorway was Amanda, their oldest daughter, holding an empty glass of water. She looked as if she had been hit by a bus. “How much did you hear,” Jean whispered.

“…All of it?” Amanda replied.

“This _never_ leaves this room, or even this moment in time, do you understand?” Marco said. She nodded, then bolted from the room.

Marco and Jean looked at each other in horror.


	33. Abraham Neely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lowkey shipping Jeb and Sergio tbh

May 18, 2016 – the day after the Kentucky primaries

“Are you _sure_ we’re going the right direction?” Jeb asked for the 10 th time, at least.

“Look, I told you, this is the only road that goes by the address. We’re getting closer.” Sergio somehow had cellular service out here in the Georgian wilderness, so it was his job to navigate them to the home of Mr. Neely. Abe Neely had responded enthusiastically a few hours after Jeb had sent the email:

_Yeah! Come on down! I got all the answers. I’m free all week. Here’s my address: …_

They had agreed on a mutually acceptable day and time – Wednesday noon – with Jeb all the while becoming more confident he would get some leads out of Mr. Neely.

“Turn in here!” said Sergio, pointing at an almost invisible gravel road to the left. Jeb turned in, swerving to avoid a small flock of mailboxes, and they crunched their way up a hill for about ten more minutes with no sign of human habitation. When they spotted the house, Jeb experienced a sinking feeling. “House” was generous: it appeared to be a trailer attached haphazardly to a cheap store-bought shed.

“I’ll approach first; you stay behind me. Watch out for any people,” said Sergio, getting out of the car. Jeb followed him, taking in the surroundings. Where did Neely get his water? Surely he didn’t have running water out here.

Sergio cautiously knocked on the door of the trailer. Almost immediately, it opened, and out popped Mr. Abraham Neely. He was in his late 40s, or early 50s, face framed in a scraggly beard, clothes disheveled and dirty. “Hey yall must be the ‘nonumus who wanted to git m’knowledge about _The Zodiac Killer!_ ” He said the last three words reverently. “Whydontchall comeonin! Sitcherselfdown!”

Sergio and Jeb looked at each other. Sergio shrugged, nodded, and walked into the trailer. Jeb followed. The interior of the trailer was dimly lit and smelled… funny. “Wheresabouts are yall from?” asked Neely.

“Florida,” Jeb mumbled, eyes adjusting to the light. All along the walls were tacked yellowed pieces of paper.

“Them’s the facts!” Neely said proudly, noticing Jeb’s glances. “Everything anybody knows about the case.” Jeb nodded. He and Sergio sat on a faded plaid couch, while Neely took the armchair. How he had managed to fit the furniture through the entrance was a mystery.

“We’re interested in your thoughts about the murders of politicians recently,” said Jeb. Neely’s eyes lit up.

“A total sham!” he yelled. “The _real_ Zodiac Killer would never do that! Somebody got it into their head they could escape punishment by taking on his exalted name! But that ain’t true! Justice is a-comin for all the frauds and posers out there!”

“So… do you have any theories as to who this fraud is? Who would pose as the zodiac killer?” Jeb prodded.

“It’s some goodfernothin politician, no doubt. They think they’re all clever-like, tryin to do their dirty work with an alias, but mmmm. They’ll get whats comin to em.”

“You think it’s a politician? Why?”

“Aint nobody but politicians got a political agenda.” Neely’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, do I know you?”

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” Sergio interjected.

“Not _you_. HIM!” said Neely. He stood up, jabbing his finger accusingly. “YER JEB BUSH! HAH! YOU LOST! DONALD J. TRUMP WILL MAKE THIS COUNTRY GREAT AGAIN!”

“We should leave,” Sergio hissed. Jeb hightailed it out of the trailer and back to the car, starting the engine as Sergio made some quick apologies to Neely, who was still shouting and gesticulating wildly. Then he was in the car, and they were speeding away.

“Well,” Sergio said after a long silence. “That didn’t quite go as planned.”


	34. Damage Control

May 21, 2016 – 8 days after a certain kitchen confrontation

Marco yawned, getting the orange juice out of the fridge. This was an ungodly hour to be awake. But keeping busy helped him not concentrate on how everything was terrible. He proceeded to pour orange juice into his already-full coffee mug. Liquid everywhere.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he muttered, reaching for the paper towels. Marco was still in damage control mode, both in the present moment and in his private life in general. Because he was an emotional idiot, twice as many people knew about him and Trump than had last week. Would Jean go around telling people? No, probably not. Especially since he had the dirt on her as well. But would she tell Nikki? That was a solid possibility. And then what? Would his future VP position go out the window?

Did he even want it anyway? No, not at the moment. He never wanted to see Nikki Haley again, but that could be temporary. There were more factors to consider than personal slights. He was still mulling over the similar offer from Donald. It was too risky to say yes, too lucrative to say no.

With the juice-coffee mixture having been cleaned up, Marco gave up on breakfast and went to the door to see if the paper had arrived. Annoyingly, it never seemed to get delivered until seven or eight, when he was already long gone. So much for trying to help the failing print news media. He’d been relying on Washington Post news emails lately.

The paper wasn’t there.

And there was the matter of Amanda. His oldest daughter knew about him and Trump as well. Would she be able to keep quiet? He hoped so. But there was really no way to know. He hadn’t gotten around to calling her yet. A little paranoid, he had spent a lot of time over the past few days googling various iterations of “trump rubio” to see if anything had gotten out. But all that was there was piles and piles of speculation and reminiscing about the primaries.

He checked the microwave clock and sighed. In just a few minutes he was supposed to take part in a conference call with some lobbyists. He’d been trying to redeem his image by raising support for the president’s zika funding plan. But, of course, the general public hadn’t been paying attention. Building credentials, he was discovering, wasn’t terribly glamorous. Hopefully it would pay off in the long run.


	35. Utopian Reptilian Regime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long -- I was in nyc

May 25, 2016 – three after the DNC grants Sanders convention concessions

Jeb was clicking away on his mac, playing solitaire. Yeah, so maybe he was supposed to be doing research, but that was boring. They’d hit wall after wall, and after the encounter with Crazy Abe, as they’d begun to call him, no more leads had surfaced. So Jeb and Sergio holed themselves up inside, searching fruitlessly, Jeb growing more and more bored.

“You know, maybe we should visit the crime scenes again. We never did make it to Cruz’s house, and I know that’s iffy, but maybe they’d let us in… I think it’s worth a shot,” mused Jeb, putting his laptop aside.

“We’ve been over this. Cruz’s people said no investigation would be allowed in their house,” Sergio pointed out. “We called them a few days ago.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t tell them it was me.”

“Cruz is on our list of suspects, too, remember?”

Jeb rolled his eyes. “ _Everyone_ is on our list of suspects.” No response from Sergio. Jeb reached over and picked up Junior Jeb from his place of honor on a drink coaster. At least Junior Jeb wasn’t a murderer. His code of ethics was faultless, his honor unpierceable. Jeb imagined America’s bright future if Junior Jeb was president: flourishing trade, an end to global warming, and, most importantly, National Turtle Day, during which he and Jeb would preside over the turtle-themed festivities. Truly a utopia.

“Hey – Hey! Get a look at this!” Sergio shoved his computer into Jeb’s lap, and Jeb gazed at the huge, scrolling CNN headline: ATTEMPT MADE ON LIFE OF BERNIE SANDERS.

“Oh my God!” Jeb yelped. “Is he okay?”

Sergio snagged back the laptop. “Uhh, says here someone tried to shoot him, but ‘they missed him, penetrating the extra folds of his baggy jacket.’”

Jeb let out a sigh of relief. “Phew, that was a close one. People are so terrible, right? Let me guess, it was a Trump supporter.”

“No, actually…” Sergio was skimming the page as quickly as he could. “They say the so-called Zodiac Killer is suspected! Jeb, this could be our big breakthrough! The crime scene is still fresh, even if it does take a few hours to get out to California…”

“Do we… do we have to go there?” Jeb asked, realizing the trip was inevitable now.

“Yeah! I’ll get our stuff, you make some calls and arrange a flight, okay?” Sergio was already moving, putting his laptop into his backpack. “We gotta get out there asap.”

Jeb mumbled a few words of protest, but got out his phone nonetheless. He really, really didn’t want to see Bernie again. He’d only recently managed to get over him, and now he was being cast back into the emotional battlefield. But as he dialed the number for the private jet service George Junior had connections to, he couldn’t help but feel a little hopeful, despite himself. There was always a chance Bernie would see the error of his ways and take him back, right? Right?


	36. An Interview Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoooo just passed 20k words

May 30, 2016 – Memorial Day

Marco and Donald were sitting on a couch in Trump Tower, half-watching Netflix, when Trump abruptly stood up.

“What?” said Marco, annoyed.

“I almost forgot,” Donald explained. “I have a phone interview right about now.”

Marco stood up too. “Oh, okay…” He followed Donald into the next room, where he had a glass of water, notepad, and phone set up on the table.

“I’m booked for an hour,” Donald elaborated. “I’m really gonna yak. It’s gonna be some dull shit. Maybe you should skedaddle on home, huh?”

“No, no!” Marco said quickly. “I’ll stay!”

Donald shrugged and sat down. “Your loss.” He picked up the phone and dialed the number that was written on the notepad.

Marco took a seat as well and settled down to listen. Trump’s phone interviews were notorious. News networks clamored to get any chance to talk to him, and would allow him to interview over the phone instead of in person whenever he pleased.

“Thank you, so good to be on here, let me tell you.” Apparently the interview had already begun. “Such a great day today, we’re honoring American heroes, the ones who are really important, you know, and it’s great, just fantastic.”

Marco grinned and rolled his eyes. Donald spoke differently to the media than to people he knew. He really was playing a role, for the most part.

“Yeah, as I’ve been saying, I’m seeing air strikes play out, I’m seeing Russia do all these things, and who’s holding them accountable? I’ve been saying this all during my campaign, people don’t seem to know I’ve been so, been so adamant about this policy but I will be. Russia can’t, cannot do these things they are doing, but this administration doesn’t know how to deal with them, so you know what, I come in, I sit down with Putin. I know Putin personally, he will like to talk to me, trust me on that one. We make a great deal, just great, I know how to make a deal with these Russians…”

It was frankly amazing how he could go on and on about a single topic without really saying anything at all. As the interviewer asked him more questions and he danced around more answers, Marco looked down at the notepad. He’d thought Trump must be constructing arguments on the fly, but he was surprised to see that no, Donald was using the paper to doodle! In the middle of an interview? This was admirable multitasking. He wasn’t even looking at the paper as he did it, just staring into space.

Marco leaned in closer to see what Donald had drawn. In the middle was a large stick figure with flowing locks and a baseball cap – this must be Trump. Next to it was a smaller stick figure holding a bottle of water, this one labeled “Lil M.”

Marco snorted and pulled the notepad closer to him, disrupting Donald’s latest doodle. This appeared to be another stick drawing of Trump, this one with large hands attached to the ends of the arms. “Not an issue at all,” read the label next to the drawing.

“Haha, what the fuck?” Marco said, looking down the page in awe. All of the drawings had a similar theme, and some were actually pretty artistic.

“Shut up, Marco!” Donald exclaimed. They both froze and looked down at the phone in horror. Donald slowly lowered it back onto its housing.

 _Shit_.


	37. Soon To Be Single

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping a few days back in time from Marco's chapter so we can pick up where Jeb left off!

May 26, 2016 – a day after the attempt on Bernie Sanders’ life

The plane had landed so late the night before that when they’d made it to Bernie’s campaign HQ the doors were locked. Jeb had finally called home to tell his abandoned police security that he was fine, and please feed the turtle, before finding a hotel and crashing.

Actually owning a turtle wasn’t as rewarding as Jeb had hoped it would be. Destiny was, in a word, boring. Sure, she toddled around sometimes, but she spent a lot of time sleeping and munching. It wasn’t that those activities weren’t endearing, but with Junior Jeb, at least he could pretend that there was some mutual respect and well-wishing between them. With Destiny, he knew she was just a turtle, and had no feelings. It made him sad, so he tried not to think about it.

Sergio woke him up bright and early the next morning to hit up the campaign headquarters. But Bernie wasn’t there yet – “he’s taking a little time after yesterday,” said one of the staffers – so they went to the crime scene instead.

“There’s not a lot of evidence,” said the policewoman who showed them around. “We have one footprint, a men’s dress shoe size seven. The shot was fired from way up there…” She gestured towards the upper levels of the stadium in which they were standing. “So no one really saw him well, but two witnesses say they saw a man racing down the stairs there. White, pudgy, on the shorter side.”

They thanked her, grabbed some breakfast, and tried HQ once again. This time, Bernie was there, looking a little worn out but not surprised to see them. He ushered them into his makeshift office. They sat down next to the desk.

“I hope I’m not being foolish in trusting you with this, but I’m conducting an investigation into the Zodiac killer,” Jeb started. “Because nobody else is doing one.”

Bernie raised his eyebrows. “Zodiac killer? We’re still calling him that?”

“Yes, yes, for now. But that doesn’t matter. I need to know if you saw anything.”

Bernie shook his head. “No. I was giving my speech, connecting to the people, then BAM!” He made an explosion gesture. It was cute. “But I do have some suspicions. For one thing, it’s gotta be a politician.”

“Huh,” said Jeb. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Because it’s true.” Bernie leaned in, and Jeb had to keep himself from doing the same. “And I know it’s a Republican candidate.”

Jeb frowned. “What? Why?”

“Because they’re all, pardon my French, pieces of shit,” Bernie said. He laughed. “Sorry, I meant _most_ of them are.”

Jeb blushed.

“Well if that’s all you’ve got, we should get going,” said Sergio, who was probably feeling pretty uncomfortable.

“Fine, fine,” Jeb said, standing up. His eyes locked with Bernie’s. “How’s that thing with _the American people_ coming along, though? Just curious.”

Bernie scratched his head. “Yeah… not sure it’s going that great.”

Sergio piloted Jeb out of the office and back to the car. “You two used to have a thing, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah,” Jeb said wistfully, pulling out of the parking spot. “But he left me for The American People or whatever BS.”

“Well, at the rate his campaign’s going downhill, looks like he’ll be single again pretty soon,” Sergio pointed out, patting Jeb’s shoulder. “You guys seemed really cute together.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need some feedback - do y'all like Sergio or not?


	38. Don't Worry, I'll Have It Burned

May 30, 2016 – 60 seconds after Trump addressed Rubio during a phone interview

Donald grabbed Marco’s hand and pulled him along behind as he ran down the hall. “Where are we going?” Marco yelped, yanking his hand away. Trump kept “running,” if you could call it that.

“We have to get you as far away from here as possible!” Trump yelled. “You can’t have been here!”

They dashed into the stairwell, up the stairs, and out onto the roof. “HEY!” Donald yelled at a group of men dozing off in the hot sun. “GET HIM TO D.C. AS QUICK AS YOU CAN, then come RIGHT BACK HERE.” The men jumped into action, and Trump shoved Marco in the direction of a black helicopter, and Marco clambered in.

Marco was taken aback with the abruptness of it all. “Hey!” he protested as one of the men buckled him in. “What about my stuff?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll have it burned.” Trump gave Marco’s knee a conciliatory pat, then ran back to the staircase and disappeared.

“That’s not what I meant!” Marco yelled after him. By then the helicopter was lifting off, so Marco sat back in his chair with a huff. Trump was going to do everything he could to save his reputation, wasn’t he? All at Marco’s expense. And deep down, Marco understood. He would do the same if Jean and Nikki were exposed. But it still hurt.

Flying over the sprawling New York suburbs, Marco remembered that the consequences of this could extend farther than damaging his and Donald’s relationship. This was the stuff of nightmares for a Republican politician. It could ruin him far more than his failed campaign ever did.

Luckily, his phone hadn’t been left behind in the Trumpian inferno. No new emails about this, not yet. Give the news an hour or so to spread around, and the fallout would start. He shot off a text to Amanda – _if approached by reporters, do not engage. pls pass on to your siblings. sorry. will explain later_ – and then another to Jean – _do me a favor and strongly deny whatever allegations, may have gotten busted, I owe u._ He didn’t know if that would prevent her from talking or not. Hopefully she had more human decency than he did, although at this point he knew she probably didn’t. His dirt on her should serve protect him.

He went to google and searched his name in the news tab. Sure enough, the first article was titled “ _Interview Gone Awry? – All the Details on ‘Shut Up, Marco!’”_ He groaned. They were in the thick of it now.


	39. Beating Around the Bush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the remaining chapters have been planned out! We're in the home stretch here, folks.

June 4, 2016 – a day after Trump makes racist comments (but isn’t that every day?)

Jeb and Sergio looked down at their newly completed poster board project with satisfaction. Like any good detectives, they had made a thumbtack and string (red, of course) map of existing clues. Shoe size matched to height matched to a list of politicians with close to those proportions; the list of politicians mapped to the evidence that a politician was the killer, and that mapped to a list of victims and who might want to kill them.

It had taken them several days of material gathering, evidence compiling, computer formatting, printing, cutting out. Now all they needed was to sit back and wait for a breakthrough.

But no breakthrough came.

“Maybe we’ve been looking at this for too long,” Jeb proposed. So they went out for ice cream –  strawberry for Sergio and turtle for Jeb and pineapple sorbet for Columba, who had decided to tag along – and returned an hour later a little happier but with a decided lack of miraculous insights.

“You know, maybe we should just go through our suspect list again, and this time see who fits the most of the clues,” Sergio suggested.

Jeb shrugged. “Fine.”

Sergio rested the poster board on one knee as he studied the list. “First we’ve got your dad, George Sr. He fits the proportions, and he seems pretty fed up with the whole political system in general.”

Jeb scoffed. “Yeah, right. He’s too old to go around killing people. He wouldn’t shoot straight with his tremors.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty farfetched.” Sergio paused. “Honestly, though? Let’s stop beating around the bush—“

Jeb laughed. “Beating around the Bush!”

Sergio sighed. “Right, right, accidental puns. Whatever. What I’m saying is, you might not want to accept it because of how Hillary and Carly treated you, but there’s no way the culprit isn’t Ted Cruz.”

Jeb knew he was right, knew instinctually, but he still protested. “Okay, why are you so sure? His own wife was a victim.”

“He fits all of the clues. The physical descriptions, the greasy fingerprints, the motive. It all lines up.”

“I guess,” Jeb admitted. “And if what Carly said was right, that he shut down his campaign because she was getting too close to the truth… that could be why Heidi is also dead. Maybe she was going to reveal his secret to the world.”

“Mm hm.” Sergio made a quick check of the windows and door, suddenly seeming afraid that the Texan senator was about to appear and strike.

“So if what he was doing this whole time was eliminating his competition,” Jeb mused. “Why did he target Bernie, who’s pretty much out of the race? And why has he not killed Hillary? Not to mention Trump?”

Sergio’s gaze darkened. “I suspect they might be his next targets.”


	40. Double Dumped

Ch40

June 11, 2016 – two days after Obama endorsed Clinton

_Marco,_

_This probably goes without saying, but our 2020 deal is off until you get your shit together. You were supposed to go back to the Senate and start getting shit done. But no. And don’t give me that “none of these accusations are true” shit – Jean told me all about it._

_Nikki_

 

_Marco,_

_We can’t see each other anymore. Delete all correspondence to and from myself. Cannot send over a lawyer as that would create suspicion. Do everything you can to defuse situation. Do not contact me again._

_Donald Trump_

This was just like what had happened in March, after Florida, but somehow worse. He had been dumped twice in as many days. He didn’t have the energy to leave his apartment, not really, but he’d have to soon, because his supply of alcohol was swiftly running out.

Watching the scandal unfold had been like watching an explosion. He googled his name obsessively. He had read every article from every news source, both respected and less than credible. He had located and bookmarked every political chat board on every sleazy website. He had watched every late night show, looking for references to himself He knew it was unhealthy, that he should be taking countermeasures or at least getting work done, but he couldn’t avert his eyes.

He was going to have to find something else to do soon, though, because the media was running out of things to report. Trump had vigorously denied all allegations that he and Marco were in the same room on that day, and his supporters believed him, of course. The left had tried to paint Trump as a hypocrite, but faced backlash and accusations of homophobia from their own constituents. Most people seemed to think there was nothing to it – Trump had probably been having a conversation in his head, and his tongue had slipped. A small number had taken up the #TrubioIsReal cause, increasing the amount of fanfiction about him exponentially. Some analysts claimed this confirmed their speculative tickets. Ha. Marco was never going to be anyone’s vice president now.

He had found one message board in particular that had concerned him: an anonymous user claiming to be his daughter, spreading a mix of completely made up and too-true facts about him. He hadn’t talked to Amanda about it yet; he couldn’t imagine why she would do such a thing. “ _They’ve actually been seeing each other since April 1.”_ True. _“Yeah he has an office plant he named Donny.”_ False. _“Pretty sure they made out on Trump’s plane.”_ True. _“They haven’t broken up yet, it’s still going on behind the scenes.”_ False. _“Yeah, he’s a terrible father, what do you expect. Never around. Has to pretend to care.”_ Was that really how she felt? He didn’t blame her.

One thing was clear to him: this lifestyle wasn’t sustainable. Something would have to change.


	41. Breaking and Entering

June 18, 2016 – two days after Trump’s campaignniversary

Jeb's sweaty palms gripped Junior Jeb so tight his hands went numb. His breaths came in rapid succession; his heart pounded in his chest. Nearly every stereotypical way to express nervousness in writing applied to him as he stood waiting in the dark outside Casa Cruz.

His gaze was fixed to the open window above, into which Sergio, dressed all in black, had disappeared several minutes before. He silently thanked George Jr. for setting him up with a bodyguard previously trained in stealth. Sergio had masterfully disengaged the screen and unlocked the windowpane, not making a sound. Jeb had wondered in what capacity Sergio had been employed prior to being a bodyguard. Certainly nothing legal.

Sergio's head reappeared at the window. "It's all clear," he called down. "I'll open the back door for you." Jeb nodded.

Caution tape crisscrossed the doorframe, and it was inside the house too, fluttering in the breeze coming in through the open door, like an infestation of eels. Everything else in the house was silent and still.

"Where do we look?" asked Jeb, putting the turtle back in his pocket. He, too, was dressed in all black.

"They've likely already searched the whole of the downstairs, because that's where she was shot," Sergio pointed out. "Let's go up."

The décor inside the house looked fairly normal, if excessively Texan. Heidi must have been responsible, because when they got into Ted’s room – yes, he had a separate room of his own – after Sergio broke the several locks on the door, they were greeted with an entirely different sight.

“Oh, my God, this is perfect,” Jeb breathed after he flicked on the light. The walls and ceiling were painted black. There was a rack of various guns on one wall. The other three were covered in thumbtacked papers, not unlike Jeb and Sergio’s own poster board endeavor.

“Well, we already did know he likes guns, or has to pretend to,” Sergio said. “But I bet these papers might be incriminating.”

A large, dark brown dresser dominated one corner of the room, so Jeb walked over to check it out. Inside one drawer were half-used bottles of various cleaning products. Another had a stash of various black clothes. Makeup. License plates. Jeb used the camera slung around his neck to take pictures of all of it.

“This explains ALL of it!” Sergio said, gesturing at the walls. Jeb walked over to take a look. Indeed, it seemed to provide motives and methods for each of the crimes. He snapped a picture.

They took pictures of everything else in the room and, deciding it was plenty damning, put everything back where they had found it and left the house. As they walked back to the car, which they had parked down the street a ways, a police car pulled up from the other direction and parked in front of the Cruz house. Realizing they had technically been breaking and entering, Jeb stood stock still with bated breath, but it was a false alarm. The car resumed moving shortly and passed by without incident.

Back in the safety of the car, Jeb flipped through the pictures he had taken as Sergio drove. “Hey, uh, this could be important.” Jeb was looking at a paper low on the wall, with a picture of Trump on it and a single word: CONVENTION, written in red sharpie over Donald’s smiling mug. “I think Trump is his next target.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What extra stories would you like to see after this one is over? One about how Ted carried out his crimes? One about Nikki and Jean? Sergio's past? More early Jeb/Bernie? I might not even write anything, but let me know.


	42. Join the Club

June 25, 2016 – four days after Rubio announces his reelection campaign; two days after the Brexit referendum

“Yes, I do expect that we will manage to keep a majority in the Senate, especially now that I am running,” Marco was saying.

“So you do expect to win?”

“I think we do have a very good chance of success. I represented the voters of Florida for the past two years, and –“ He struggled to come up with a positive statistic to complete the sentence. “And the polls look very good so far, they clearly know what is best.”

“How do you think Brexit is going to effect the Florida Senate race, if at all?”

“I don’t really think it’s going to affect it directly, although the economic impact might, you know, make people think about candidates who will help them get through this rough stretch. Because of the recession, immediate and possibly prolonged that is following this vote, that was made by the people of the U.K., for better or for worse.”

“And, I’m sorry to bring this up again, but for our last question – were you ever being vetted by Trump as a Vice Presidential nominee?”

“I was not being vetted by him; I was approached but I refused, as I do not think that is where I can do the most to serve my country.”

“Florida Senator Marco Rubio, calling in from Washington, D.C., who just announced he is running for reelection this cycle. Thank you for your time, Senator.”

“Sure thing, Robert.” He hung up, hoping he got the name right. Weren’t all these reporters named Robert anyway?

Well, he had finally stopped mourning and gotten off his ass. And why _not_ run for reelection? Did he hate his job in the Senate? Sure. But had Nikki been right in telling him that staying in the Senate and getting shit done was the key to building his reputation? Yeah. And if he wasn’t going to be anybody’s veep, he’d have to do that all by himself.

He had forgotten what an Actual Hell campaigning was, though. Fundraising (read: groveling) had taken up most of his time the past week. And he hadn’t even started crisscrossing around the state, doing campaign events yet. Oh boy would this be a fun time.

He checked his phone for new messages. An email from his new campaign manager – whatever. Nothing from Donald.

What did he have to do to get him back?

Okay, so maybe Marco hadn’t exactly _moved on_. But if Marco’s new campaign had made him jealous yet, he had made no indication. Didn’t Trump like successful people? What, did he have to start criticizing him again? Marco didn’t know if he could do that.

 _It’s probably his children pressuring him to stay on task,_ he assured himself. _Ivanka is the one to blame here. Trump wants nothing more than to get back with me, but they’re not letting him because they know it’s too dangerous._

He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He should call the kids before they went to bed. Not Amanda, though: she wasn’t talking to him. Not Amanda, not Jean, not Donald. A veritable we-aren’t talking-to-Marco club. Maybe he should commission someone to design them matching jackets.


	43. To Catch a Cruz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice these chapters are beginning to be published before their canon date. This is so I can publish the last chapters on the day they actually happen. So obviously we're going to be deviating a little from news canon. I suspect none of you care by this point.

July 2, 2016 – four days after Clinton and Warren campaign together

“So… we have everything? Right?” said Jeb, looking at the pages of evidence and details arrayed around his spot on the floor.

“Yes, yes, just call her,” Sergio urged. “Stop putting it off.”

“You know me too well.” Jeb dialed Carly’s number.

After three rings, she picked up. “Jeb?” she asked, surprised. “Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Yeah, it’s me. And I’ve been busy. Investigating.”

“Good, that’s good! So, what’d ya find out?”

“You were right all along.” Jeb paused for dramatic effect. “It’s all Ted Cruz.”

“Wow!” Carly called to somewhere behind her. “ _Hills, you hear that? Jeb’s uncovered Ted Cruz!_ ”

“ _WELL ISN’T THAT JUST FAN-FOUR-STIC, AS THE KIDS LIKE TO SAY!”_ Hillary replied.

Carly laughed weakly into the phone. “Isn’t she just delightful.”

“Uhh, I guess.”

“So, do you have evidence? Could we put him in jail?”

“I mean, yeah? But also, no.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s got his greasy little fingers in every government body, remember?” Jeb pointed out. “We learned that when no one investigated him.”

“Oh, right.”

There was a pause.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Carly asked.

“Well, we figured out his next target. He’s going to try to assassinate Trump at the convention.”

“Ohh, so you’re going to catch him in the act!”

“Exactly. We trail him at the convention, put cameras everywhere, stop him before he shoots…”

“Or – OR – we arrest him AFTER he shoots, eh? Eh?” Carly prodded.

Jeb sighed. “Yeah, we’ll see what happens, but let’s try to minimize casualties. So, are both of you going to be there?”

“ _NO WAY IN HELL_ ,” Hillary exclaimed.

“I guess I’ll come,” Carly said. “I’m already supposed to be a Republican, so there’s no harm.”

“Great. I’ll see you then. Oh – and bring an all-black outfit, just in case.” Jeb hung up.


	44. Millennials

Ch44

July 9, 2016 – 9 days until the Republican National Convention

Marco looked down at the email his new Senate campaign manager had sent him in vague disbelief. This couldn’t be real. But oh, it was – he had planned out all of Marco’s outfits, for every day of the convention. And over a week in advance.

He chuckled. What a guy. At least it showed he was trying, right? That he cared? Or maybe, he realized, his manager was doing all of this to make Marco _think_ he cared, but really he was just sitting at home, rubbing his hands together, laughing evilly while the baseball game played in the background and his children looked on in concern and he thought about how he was dooming Marco Rubio’s campaign and future. Yeah, that’s probably what was happening. Of course a backstabber like him would like baseball. Marco used to coach his kids’ football team, back when he was a cool dad with a cool job and a cool future.

 _But hey_! he told himself. _You’re not getting this type of email from Nikki Haley anymore, are you?_ That cheered him up again. Until he remembered that she’d be there, at the convention.

And so would Jean. Great. Third wheeling at the party. The _political_ party. B)

It seemed almost inevitable that he’d spend the four days as a third wheel. Almost. He still had hope, in the form of a paper he kept folded and in his wallet. On it was written a single number: 420.

The number for Trump’s hotel room. On paper, because he’d erased the email, obviously. Or at least his tech people told him it had been erased. He didn’t really know how that stuff worked.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to smooth things over with Donald. It was a long shot, but he’d worked hard to make it a possibility. How had he gotten the room number? The time honored trick of the trade. A good slathering of false assurances, sprinkled with a few little bribes. Not money, because money could be tracked, but other little things. Ok, ok, it had been actual money with the concierge, but whatever. He was a millennial. Millennials were poor.

And, ok, maybe the concierge was the only person he had talked to, and maybe he’d snickered while giving Marco the email address ([rooplepooples@gmail.com](mailto:rooplepooples@gmail.com)) with which he would send the number and maybe the number had been surrounded by clipart of leaves.

Marco was starting to doubt the integrity of his information.

Well, if it turned out to be wrong, it shouldn’t be that difficult to find his room anyway. Let’s be real, Trump is going to stay in the penthouse.

That little bit of hope was going to get Marco to the convention. He’d shake hands, compliment wives, deliver his little memorized phrases about “bipartisan cooperation,” immigration, zika, etc. He’d wear his manager’s outfits. It would all be worth it in the end. Because he and Trump would be together again, permanently, after the convention.


	45. Retail Recon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, welcome to my pal Christie.   
> Also, I no longer have a working computer at my house. My chapter plans and publishing schedule were lost when my computer broke. I wrote all of this on mobile, and it seems that the rest of the chapters will be written that way too. What this means is that I won't be able to monitor chapter length, which is going to vary from now on. I'll just write until I feel I've written the chapter.   
> I'm also going to be out of the country starting 8 days from now. I'll try to have all the chapters written by then, but I'm not sure how that will affect publishing.   
> Thanks for bearing with me! We're in the thick of the endgame now.

Chapter 45  
July 12, 2016 - 6 Days before the RNC

"Ok, you're sure the camera is on?"   
"Yes, Jeb, for the last time, I've got this. OK? I used to do this for a living." Sergio patted his baseball cap, inside of which a camera was concealed. Jeb didn't bother asking what, specifically, Sergio had done for a living in the past. Neither did Carly, who was sitting in the backseat of the minivan as it pulled into the exit lane. Everyone was in disguise - Jeb as a sad old man, Carly as his disappointed wife, Sergio as their too-cool-for-this son in law. It would have been convincing, has Jeb and Carly not been such public figures. But they were, so their disguises were essentially useless, and Sergio was going to be doing all of the recon work.   
Jeb carefully, inconspicuously (he hoped) followed the other minivan into the small Ohio town. There was hardly anyone out and about, which was a little worrisome.   
"You don't think maybe this is too dangerous?" he wondered aloud.   
"Oh my god, Jeb, this was your idea," said Carly. "We can't stop now. We've been following him for four hours now and we're just now getting somewhere. And we invested in all this high tech computery stuff." She gestured to the array of wires and monitors scattered throughout the backseat, with which they could watch Sergio's video feed and monitor his location.   
"Yeah, it'll be fine. You'll be perfectly safe here in the car! You can drive away if anything goes wrong. And hopefully you can get some footage of it." Sergio patted Jeb's shoulder reassuringly.   
The other minivan pulled into the parking lot of "Guns N Eats." Jeb pulled into a parking lot across the street, in front of the "Tractors - Tobacco - Traps" store. Two equally tasteful locales, clearly frequented by equally genteel patrons. Jeb put the car in park and looked through the binoculars hung around his neck. The door of the car opened, and out stepped a man wearing a tshirt and jeans. He sure did look like Ted Cruz (who else would it be? They had been following his car since he got into it) but he kept his face pointed in the opposite direction. The man entered Guns N Eats.   
"Do you think he's onto us?" Jeb hissed.   
"There's a chance," said Sergio. "No way he'd know it was you, though. All right, I'm heading out." He popped out of the car, and Carly crawled into the front seat with the computer, which was now broadcasting live from Sergio's hat. Jeb didn't know where to look - to watch Sergio out the car window, or to watch the approaching store through the video feed.   
Sergio entered the store. A Guns N Eats employee was having a discussion with the man who was probably Ted Cruz. Sergio walked by, into the aisles of junk food. As he pretended to peruse the chips, the sensitive microphones he was carrying picked up the conversation.   
"It doesn't have to be fast, I just have to have something accurate," Cruz's voice said. "I've been having accuracy problems lately and it's so annoying, you understand?"   
"He's talking about Bernie," Jeb growled. Carly patted his arm.   
The employee laughed. "Yes, that can be troublesome. I think we have some good options..."  
"Just give me one, the most expensive," Cruz ordered. "I'll pay you double. All under the table."   
It was silent for a while. Sergio wandered towards the sodas, then to the kids' snacks. He picked up a package of fruit snacks - sea creatures - that has turtles on the front. Jeb smiled. Sergio was so precious.   
"Does this work?"  
Sergio had moved to an aisle with a clear view of the checkout counter, to which the employee had returned with some sort of gun.   
"It's fine." Cruz handed the cashier a large wad of bills in return for the weapon and promptly exited the store. As Sergio paid for the fruit snacks, Jeb watched Cruz, again facing away, get into his car and drive away.   
When Sergio returned, he slammed the car door behind him. "Dammit!" he exclaimed.   
"Woah there buddy," said Carly. "What's wrong?"  
"Yeah, didn't that go pretty well?" Jeb added. "I don't think he even noticed you!"  
"His face was hidden the whole time!" Sergio explained, passing Jeb the box of snacks. "We didn't get any evidence!"  
"Oh." Jeb and Carly looked at each other sheepishly. "Oops."  
"He's one step closer to another murder now. I think he was taunting us," Sergio continued.   
"Well, hey," Carly pointed out. "There's still the convention."  
"Right." Jeb started the car. "The convention."


	46. Seduction for Dummies, or Republicans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still writing all this on mobile. RIP.   
> And yeah I'm aware Rubio doesn't intend to go to the convention. But we don't live in a world where the Zodiac Killer runs amok.

July 16, 2016 - two days before the RNC

Maybe rooplepooples@gmail.com had been right after all.   
An entire wing of the hotel's fourth floor was closed off. Burly men in suits were positioned next to the makeshift gate, daring anyone on the elevator to go ahead, try to assassinate Mr. Trump, and see how far you get. The copious security might have disheartened someone else, or even his previous self, but now, it was a small inconvenience to Marco. He could get past them. He had to.  
He'd arrived in Cleveland several days early so he could do this recon work and make the necessary preparations for his advances. Well, today he was ready to act. He was going to make his move. After today it would be as if his breakup with Donald had never happened. Who cared what the public knew?  
He inspected himself once more in the mirror. His hair was perfect, just disheveled enough that it invited being brushed back into place, or being messed up further. He wore his very shiniest shoes, his most unwrinkled suit. His tie was seductively askew.   
He pointed finger guns at the mirror. "You're the shit, Marco," he reassured himself. "Let's do this."  
Luckily, no one was on the elevator all the way to the fourth floor. Maybe this was a sign - he took it as such. As the doors parted, he was met with the glares (not that he could see their expressions behind their reflective sunglasses) of the guards, but he approached them with a spring in his step.   
"Good afternoon, gentlemen! Would you do me a favor and let me through, please?"  
"Uhh..." The guard looked a little confused.  
"I'm Senator Rubio," Marco clarified. "Mr. Trump and I have some business to discuss."  
The one guard looked at the other, eyebrows raised. But the second pursed his lips. "No, we haven't been alerted to any appointment. So, yeah."  
Further down the hall, Marco spotted one of Trump's campaign aides stepping out of her room. "Excuse me! Senator Rubio here!" he called. The aide turned. "Hey, these guys say I don't have an appointment and I can't come in, but I have some  
very important platform details to discuss with Mr. Trump before tomorrow!"  
"Check his ID and let him in," the aide instructed the guards. Success! This really was his lucky day.   
Once into the gated area, he followed the door numbers to the end of the hall. Here it was. Room 420, the door a little ajar. He took a deep breath, and knocked.   
"Come in," said a voice from the other side. Trump's voice. Marco stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. Trump didn't look up from his computer.   
"What do you want," he said. It was more of a statement than a question.   
"It - it's me..."  
Hearing Marco's voice, Donald's head whipped around. He stood up, brows furrowed. "Marco?" His voice lowered to a whisper. "Why did you - you shouldn't have - what if -"  
"So you're not glad I'm here?" Marco pouted, stepping further into the room.   
"No! No, that's not what I meant."  
Marco closed the gap between him and slung his arms around Donald's neck. "Then what's the issue?"  
Looking down at his little senator, Donald's look of concern faded into one of affection. "I guess there isn't one?"   
Marco felt Donald's hands settle on the small of his back, and he leaned forward to rest his head on Donald's suit, breathing in the coffee and the money. When Marco had been planning this moment out in his head, he had always been more aggressive than affectionate, but in the present, he was overcome with fuzzy emotion. "I missed you," was all he could say.   
"I missed you too," said Donald Trump.


	47. Reincenberg Uncertainty Principle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be obvious, but at the time of me posting this the convention has still not happened. I have no idea how it will really play out.   
> Also I've noticed the formatting gets funky when I write the chapter on my phone... Sorry about that.

July 18-20, 2016 - the first three days of the RNC

The convention was total chaos.  
Events were ruled by the Heisenberg uncertainty principle - you could know where and when it was, or when and what it was, or where and what, but never all three. Jeb, Carly, and Sergio did pretty well, considering.   
The plan was simple, in theory: keep an eye on Ted Cruz. Two of them - Jeb and Sergio, as it worked out - followed him around the convention by day, and by night Carly kept watch over the cameras Sergio had installed outside Ted's hotel room and balcony. In reality, implementing the plan was extremely difficult. Cruz was as slippery figuratively as he was slimy literally. As soon as the convention officially began, his movements became utterly unpredictable. One second he'd be sitting, listening to a speaker, and then Sergio would be tapping Jeb's shoulder, telling him that Cruz had suddenly disappeared, and no, he hadn't seen him leave. They'd find him ten minutes later deep in conversation with a group delegates as if they had been talking for hours.   
It was creepy. It was like he was playing games with them.   
Luckily for Jeb and Sergio, he rarely seemed to be in the same room as Trump. They could relax a little when there wasn't the immediate threat of an assassination.   
By day three, they had fallen into a pattern. Carly told them Cruz had left for the convention center, and they followed in the minivan. They arrived, and went around to all the events until they found the one he was attending. Jeb would invariably be stopped by someone for a chat, so he answered questions about Florida, his family, his future. (Not once was he questioned about turtles, sadly.) Sergio would keep an eye out while Jeb escaped the conversation, but by then Cruz would disappear and they'd have to start searching all over again. By the end of the day, they were exhausted, Jeb getting more and more rude with his fellow attendees and Sergio starting to mumble in his first language.   
"So. I take it there was no excitement today?" Carly asked as they staggered back into the hotel room they used as home base.   
"Yeah." Sergio flopped onto the bed. "And you know what this means."  
"No..." Jeb didn't follow.   
Sergio propped himself up on his elbow. "It means tomorrow is the day."  
Jeb's eyes widened. The concept that an assassination would actually be attempted in front of him and that it was his job to stop it had seemed surreal before and was just now sinking in. There would be... gunshots? Blood maybe?  
Carly put a reassuring hand on Jeb's shoulder. "We'll be ready."  
"Right." Sergio added. "You can do this, Jeb. We'll be there for you. We're a team."  
Jeb smiled around at his team members. Team Destiny, he decided.


	48. *sad_air_horn.midi*

July 21, 2016 - the last day of the RNC  
Marco gave Donald one last, subtle, no-homo slap on the back. "You've got this!" he whispered encouragingly.   
"I know, I know. Ok, it's almost time." Donald extricated himself, and Marco hurried to his front row seat. Ivanka gave him a nasty look, and he grinned at her. He wasn't going to let her negativity bother him. He and Donald were an item once again, and these past few days had been some of the best he'd ever experienced. He had even changed his angsty alarm tone; he felt it no longer reflected his identity.  
Reince Priebus had ascended to the podium, and the chatter of the crowd died down to a murmur. "We would now like to welcome Donald Trump to the stage to accept the party nomination."  
The cheering was a little halfhearted, but Marco gave a standing ovation nonetheless. He knew there had been rumors circulating among the delegates about him and Donald, and he was ok with that. They were all just jealous. Much to the chagrin of those behind him, he stayed standing while Donald took the stage and begun his speech. He had rehearsed it several times to Marco, but each time it had been dramatically different. Marco wondered which version he was using this time - forced humility, condemning Hillary, commenting on current events, standard stump speech?  
"Hey!" someone yelled from behind. Marco whipped around, ready to glare at whoever was commenting about his standing up, but was confronted with an unexpected sight - a man with a gun, walking down the aisle! Where the hell was security?Well, shit! That was bad news!  
Before he could think twice, Marco vaulted onto the stage and ran - leapt - to protect Trump.   
Everything happened quickly, and in a blur. Three loud gunshots sounded in quick succession. Suddenly, Marco was lying on the floor, and everything was loud and then Donald, dear Donald was kneeling next to him. He couldn't feel anything and his vision was fuzzy at the edges. All he was aware of now was Donald, right here with him, looking seriously distraught. Why was he so sad if everything was fine? He was playing a dirty trick.   
"Marco, little guy, stay with me," Donald mumbled.   
"Stop playing games, idiot," he forced out, with a lot more effort than he anticipated.   
With his final advice dispensed, everything faded to black.


	49. Foiled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhhh sorry this took so long I haven't had wifi in three days and I've been exhausted from traveling so...ya know...  
> Also... How dya like that plot twist last chapter? Fun, right?

July 21, 2016 - the day the assassination attempt is to be carried out

"Hey!" Jeb yelled. He and Sergio leapt out of their strategically chosen aisle seats and into action. Jeb ran up the aisle to the man dressed in all black and tried to take the gun. But Cruz pushed him away with one hand, and he tripped over the chairs of shocked Republicans. Sergio grabbed Cruz's arms from behind, but Cruz was able to fire three shots towards the stage. Regaining his footing, Jeb didn't have a chance to see if he had successfully shot Trump; he stepped back over to where Sergio and Cruz were struggling and this time was able to snatch the gun from Ted's slimy hands.

Feeling confident, Jeb kicked at Ted's shins. With the combined effort from Jeb, Sergio wrestled Cruz to the floor. On queue, Jeb handed Sergio the extra tie he was carrying, and Sergio used it to fasten Ted's hands behind his back. Years of interaction with media told Jeb this was just the sort of little detail they would love and which would be repeated in every article.

Carly ran in with the security guards from the front desk. That morning, Jeb and Sergio had watched as Ted had systematically and quietly incapacitated many of the other guards, including Trump's personal entourage. The guards brought by Carly took possession of Ted, who was no longer resisting, and Jeb felt a weight lift off of his shoulders. Carly came and stood beside him. "The police and FBI are on their way. We did it!"

"Yeah," said Jeb. He felt confident that Team Destiny would go down in American history as heroes.

"Oh no, Jeb!" Sergio was looking toward the stage in dismay. Jeb turned his attention in that direction.

  
The stage was a scene of calamity, a veritable pieta. Many politicians surrounded and bent over two central figures. One was bent over the other, who was lying, raised slightly by the other, on the stage. The first was obviously Trump, based on the hair, and Jeb had to admit he was a little disappointed that he wasn't dead.

As Ted was led out of the room, Jeb walked further in, but stopped still as he realized what had happened. He would recognize that cheeky, boyish mug anywhere. But... how could it be?

_He could see it even now: a hot, autumn Florida office, in waybackwhoknowswhen, he could t remember the year, a coffee in his hands, a soft knock at the door. "Come in." A young, small Hispanic man in a suit, flashing a charming grin already perfected, extending a warm, damp hand. Speaking with a little bit of a lisp. "Hello sir, my name's Marco Rubio, it's an honor to meet you."_

They'd had their differences since, but now here was Jeb, running to the stage, up the stairs, pushing the others to the side, joining Trump in the middle of the stage. There was blood all over the floor. Donald looked up at him with misty eyes. "He's dead "


	50. Putting the Fun in Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alt title: Putting the Septuagenarian in Somber Occasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Travel, schoolwork, pneumonia... I have plenty of excuses. Anyway, the chapter is here now, so enjoy.

July 24, 2016 – three days after Ted Cruz is arrested

The assembly was solemn, but Jeb knew most of them were faking it. The black suits, expensive flowers, clenched handkerchiefs – it was all for show. It wasn’t for Jeb, though. However much he had been hurt by Marco’s cold betrayal this election, there was no denying that they had spent some of Jeb’s most illustrious days, when he was governor, as legislative companions. Comrades in Conservatism. Amigos del estado. Those had been good days, and who knew? Maybe they could have continued in the future.\

Sergio kept a comforting hand on Jeb’s shoulder throughout the service, and they drove to the reception together in Jeb’s van, just like old times.

“Old times?” That had been only three days ago. Swept up in a media whirlwind, three days seemed like a lifetime.

His schedule hadn’t been this packed since, well, his campaign. He gave interview after interview, made statement after statement, met with lawyer after lawyer. It had been taxing, especially since he also had to keep Sergio out of the spotlight, as Sergio had requested to not make any media appearances. But Sergio had also been great support for these past few days.

 _What was Sergio going to do now?_ Jeb mused as he sat on the back steps of the reception hall, looking up at the moon and nursing a beer. _I don’t need a bodyguard anymore… Do I have another position for him? Publicity or marketing probably wouldn’t work… he’s not as good as I am with social media…_

“Uhh, hey, am I interruptin somethin?” Someone sat down beside him.

“Bernie?” Jeb gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I wood say I came too pay my respects, but that, would be a lie. I came too see yoo.”

Jeb smiled. “Isn’t that a little disrespectful to say at a funeral?”

“Yeah, maybe. But I knoo I could find yoo heah. I wanted too talk too yoo.”

Jeb draped an arm casually across Bernie’s shoulders. “Well, go ahead.”

“Jeb, many of the American people are enthoosiastic about me. But a good majority are not. And my campaign is ovah now, and the people who ARE enthoosiastic about me are nawt following my instructions about voting for Hillary!”

“Uh-huh,” Jeb followed. “Whatever you had with the people, it’s just not working out how you intended?”

“Yoo follow me EXACTLY.” With the last word, Bernie banged his hand on the stairs. “I’ve missed this connection we have.”

“So what you’re saying is…”

“I’m saying I’m sorry, Jeb! I apologize for ever having left yoo. I should have known bettah than to think the American People could replace what we had. But yoo are a big hero now, and I’m just a failed candidate…”

“Guess what?”

Bernie sat up straight and looked around as if confused. “What?”

Jeb giggled. “No, silly.” He took hold of Bernie’s chin and turned his head so they were facing each other. “I forgive you!”

Not drunk enough to forget that there were many Republicans around, he moved in for a hug. It was then that Jeb knew the dangerous journey was over. The Zodiac Killer had been captured. Bernie was right – he was a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the journey comes to an end. I could never have imagined that this satirical, utterly insincere work would grow to so large a scale, or to so wide a following! Thanks to everyone who has left comments and kudos.   
> I know some of you have been asking about what happens next. I have no desire to write another installment, but if someone was interested in what would happen, hmu. I'm envisioning a very dramatic zodiac trial. And a Nikki/Jean story would be destined to succeed.


End file.
